


Steady Hands

by outerrims



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Angst, Attempts at historical accuracy, Banter banter banter, Drama, I wont say I'm in love, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut, Tragedy, Universe Alterations, a hot mess of a romance, bed sharing, friends with benefits as desperate rationalization, get this shakespearean shit out of here, i want my fucking moral ambiguity and im going to GET IT, medieval healthcare, some fluff i guess??, they never should have told me there's 2 decades of history between these bastards, what if two flawed people were hardcore as hell about each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outerrims/pseuds/outerrims
Summary: Fine.So troublesome, far more than he was worth, yet Askeladd couldn’t help but to like the guy. || twenty years of codependency
Relationships: Askeladd/Bjorn (Vinland Saga)
Comments: 145
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some wonderful people have drawn some art for this fic so I've collected them here!
> 
> Mino: [i.](https://twitter.com/Minikawa2/status/1240352378559148032) [ii.](https://twitter.com/Minikawa2/status/1242842934845689856)  
> Snowy: [i.](https://bjorrn.tumblr.com/post/613098648914509824/snowystoat-based-on-an-art-suggestion-from)  
> Haneen: [i.](https://twitter.com/7anenoh/status/1287841020013576194) [ii](https://twitter.com/7anenoh/status/1287841014141640704)  
> Shanti: [i. ](https://twitter.com/ShantiRittgers/status/1363685732808683520) [ ii. ](https://twitter.com/ShantiRittgers/status/1363690262661263361)

**~p a r t I: e i n m a ð r g ó ð r ~**

The spear came out of nowhere. It carved through the air an inch from Askeladd’s nose, so close that the wind in its wake cut his face. The din of fighting had finally begun to ease, the clattering of steel on steel, the maddened shrieking of desperate men; disorienting, if you were green around the gills. It should not have been so for Askeladd, it should have never come that close. But now only a few stragglers remained; finally, he could hear himself think.

The spear had struck the outlaw with so much force that he had been ripped off his feet and impaled against the bulkhead of a beached flatboat behind them. He was still alive when Askeladd slogged over to relieve him of his purse; each breath gurgled from between his clenched teeth, and red spittle bubbled on his lips. “Rotten luck,” he said to the outlaw who had about to kill him as he wheezed his last breaths, clutching the shaft sticking out of his chest.

“I imagine you want this?” Askeladd said to the spearman as he waded over, waving the coin purse.

The youth wrenched the spear out of the dead man’s chest, who slumped into the surf, his blood tinging the water red. “You keep it,” he said, tipping his helm back and swiping at his brow with the back of one hand. His gaze flicked toward the body briefly, before settling on Askeladd's face.

Askeladd’s curiosity was piqued. “You don’t need coin?”

“Most people need it,” said the youth equanimously, wiping the blade of his spear on the cloak of another dead man, this one untouched by the surf. “But I don’t _want_ it.” The slight emphasis on the word coupled with the spearman’s incredulous expression and tilted head gave Askeladd the impression his rescuer thought he was stupid. Not true, but it indicated intelligence.

Askeladd grinned. “Very generous of you. Save a man’s life, then _you_ pay him through your rightful spoils! What a rare sort you are.”

“You’re making too much out of it,” said the youth, turning away. “I just don’t want it, that’s all.”

Askeladd studied the spearman, searching his face for any indication that this man might be at least some fun to talk to. He was painfully bored, trapped among the dull and stupid, consigned to their petty cares and concerns. But here, in that shaggy-haired youth, was perhaps some potential. He was already a head taller than Askeladd, shoulders wide, though he walked with them slightly curled forward, as if anxious to take up so much space. He was dark-haired and warm complected, his eyes were brown and thoughtful, and Askeladd realized with a jolt that they were studying him with the same cool intensity of a tracker, absorbing each little detail. “Suit yourself, stranger.”

By the time he tucked the coinpurse firmly inside one of his cloak pockets, the battle – or what could be generously described as a ‘battle’ – had ended. The village, save for a handful of defenders and a few women who had caught some straggler’s eye, was virtually untouched; there hadn’t even been much damage to the buildings, not even the rudely carved great hall. Hatchet men wandered the beaches looking for lingering foes to dispatch into the afterlife, and another rounded up survivors for use as thralls. One terrified group of stragglers tried to push back to their boat but were cut off at the pass and hacked to pieces, another group attempted to melt into the woods to the south, never considering for a moment that their ill-chosen victims might know the area better. Sooner or later, they would be found.

Though ostensibly a peaceful village, its inhabitants knew their business after a battle. Corpses were checked for valuables, spoils sorted into piles by textile and function, deep pits were dug on the far outskirts of the village and bodies were completely stripped, stacked inside like firelogs, before being unceremoniously covered by wet dirt. There had only been about thirty of them, Askeladd counted before the first shot loosed across the slope to the waterfront. Maybe ten were still unaccounted for.

“Is this your village?” Askeladd asked his rangy savior as they moved through the blood-spattered paths.

“More or less,” he said with a shrug.

Askeladd crossed his hands behind his head and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Lucky for it I was passing through.”

“Lucky for you I had my eye on your back.”

“Yeah? Did you see something you like back there?”

The youth snorted, lips twisting against a grin. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Oh, where are my manners,” Askeladd said, affecting a portentous tone. “Many thanks, kind and skilled stranger. Without your timely intervention, I might have had to exert myself for a moment.”

“Yeah, because you were in danger of being bored to death when I found you. That was it.”

Askeladd snorted. “What’s your name?”

The youth looked over at him; standing at his full height, he was much taller than Askeladd had initially assumed. He had that awkward, gangling look of one who had shot up half a foot in the space of a year, well before they’d had the chance to fill out all that ridiculous frame. His head nearly brushed the low branches of the trees as he strode quickly through them. “Bjorn.”

“Askeladd, son of Olaf." The official designation, since he was in Denmark, though it was sour on his tongue. He held out his hand, and Bjorn took it, with a grip strong enough to creak Askeladd’s bones. But he didn’t wince, nor did his grin falter. It was a common greeting among hicks from these peripheral villages, on the outskirts of anything interesting; all you really had to do out here was work with your hands, and you assumed all were as hardy as yours.

Bjorn strapped his spear and shield to his back, sheathing the axe at his side.“You said you were passing through?”

“That I did.”

Bjorn adjusted the helm over his head. “My home’s a few miles inland. You’re welcome to rest there before you move on, if you like.”

Askeladd gave a sarcastic bow, flashing his new host an insouciant grin. “Much obliged.” He saw no reason to deny himself a respite before he continued home; no reason to sleep in dirt when a bed was so readily offered. He wasn’t exactly eager to see his family so soon; he’d hoped the excursions in England would have kept him busy for longer, at least another few months. But Autumn was his favorite time of year, when the world was falling asleep; it would be pleasant to linger as the land slipped into frozen silence, at least for a few days. “I haven’t had a day to rest in so long. I won’t be able to stay long, of course. You understand. But a favor's a favor. I will repay it when—”

"That's not how it works," Bjorn said. "Don't worry about it." 

They moved up the path from the beach into the village, a little cluster of thatched-roof homes, scattered around a rude longhall like shoots of mushrooms at the base of a tree. A few hailed Bjorn as they passed through, their expressions usually open and long-suffering and fond as they patted his shoulders and pinched his cheeks. He greeted them all by name.

“You fought well, Bjorn,” said the smith, tossing a molten rod into a barrel of water, where it belched out clouds of steam. “Though we could have used Rorik’s blade today,” he added with a cold smile.

“I’ll pass along the compliment,” Bjorn said, and his tone made clear he knew it was no praise.

Bjorn’s village was so small that it only took them a few paces to traverse it entirely; his boots were still wet when they started up the hill and onto the path further inland. The land mostly flat, strewn with farmlands and a smaller hamlet they passed about an hour into their journey. Everyone seemed to know Bjorn there too, though this time he didn’t reach out to anyone or say hello. There was a story there, Askeladd knew, but he decided not to press. As thanks. The kid did save his life after all.

After they passed the silent hamlet, Bjorn turned to him, his eyes dark and serious. “I want you to show me how you fight with a sword,” he said firmly. Clearly expecting a no but ready to force a yes.

Askeladd smirked. He respected his host more for having an ulterior motive. “Don’t you already know how to use one?”

“Yeah, but you do more than use your sword.”

“Is that right.”

“I was watching. When I had a chance, anyway. I want to fight with a sword like you do.” 

Askeladd affected irritated indecision, heaving a long sigh. “Well, I don’t know. It’s such a bother. You’re fine enough with axe already. And more than fine with that spear of yours. What do you want to give yourself extra work for, when you already do something well enough to serve?”

“I don’t like using axes,” Bjorn said, his mouth set stubbornly. “I’m not interested in mindlessly hacking away until someone brains me from behind. I want to use something capable of accuracy. In the trained hand.”

Askeladd stared at his gangling savior, gesturing seriously as he illuminated his philosophy on the difference. His hands moved to the shape of his thoughts, long and round when elaborating a point, cutting firmly through the air when declaring or deciding. Every few moments he’d look over at Askeladd, gauging his response; searching, no doubt, for loss of interest, or worse. Failing to find that, he continued right along, and Askeladd got the uncomfortable feeling that this was the first time he’d really ever been able to talk to an interested party. Even if that interest was passing curiosity.

Evening settled into twilight, and the first stars peeked through the black slate sky, quickly leeching away its last light. He imagined they would find Bjorn’s home soon, for his host seemed unconcerned by the hour. And it had to be said, the night was clear and calm, the air cool without being cold, the slightest chill of winter behind it. But something crept on the back of Askeladd’s neck, an unconnected anxiety, unattached to –

A sound cut the air, fixed feathers in flight – before he could flinch away, something slammed into his thigh and calf hard enough to drive him to his knees, a cry of pain bursting from his lips. That was the fucking sound, he cursed himself – arrows in pursuit. Bjorn heard it too; without a word, he drew his shield and skidded to Askeladd side, hauling it down over both their heads before another could find its mark.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, breathing hard. “What the –”

“The outlaws who took off for the forest,” Askeladd realized instantly. He assumed they would hide by the treeline until dusk fell before fleeing to the rest of their boats, but he’d underestimated their thirst for blood. Whose didn’t matter.

An arrowhead punched through the hardwood of Bjorn’s shield an inch from his face, but he didn’t flinch. “Damn it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

“Grovel later,” Askeladd said, grinning through the pain.

When the arrows finally tapered off, Bjorn leapt to his feet and practically hauled Askeladd off the path, hustling them into the trees and down a path he clearly knew well. Each step was a crushing agony, but Askeladd made himself keep pace. Tree branches whipped at his cheeks, and a sharp wind rustled through the leaves, raising a chill on his skin. The bolts in his legs twisted sickeningly with each step, each a fresh agony and in the branches were archers, with a couple of fleeing insects in their sights. But he saw Bjorn’s goal a moment later; an alcove set between two leaning rocks, hidden from long range sight by a copse of bushes and trees.

They crashed through the branches, into the safety of the alcove. “They’re gonna have to be face to face if they wanna fight us,” Bjorn said with satisfaction, and he gently set Askeladd down near its entrance. “And they’ll want to. If we run off, we’ll tell others where they are, how many of them are hiding in the trees. If they have any hope of getting out of here, they’ll finish us quick.”

The pain was shattering, but even through the haze of misery, Askeladd could appreciate Bjorn’s capacity for assessing a field. “You know your shit,” he said, clutching the oozing wound in his thigh, blood beading around the base of the bolt.

“This is my home,” he said incredulously. “Who wouldn’t know their own land?”

“Someone who never walks it.”

Bjorn shushed him with a gesture before crouching before a bush just at the mouth of the alcove. “Don’t draw until they come,” he whispered, nodding down at the hilt of Askeladd’s sword, and he understood; the noise would reveal them. Save for the slightest sound of his shortened breath, there was only the quiet sigh of a breeze through the branches, rising and falling like waves. Careful not to shatter the silence, Bjorn peered through the leaves, rolling his spear in his palm. The muscles in his back went taut.

“There,” he breathed, and before Askeladd could see for himself Bjorn darted out of the alcove and into a cluster of bushes a few feet away, hiding himself within. Their assailants would be looking for the source, and Bjorn clearly intended to draw them away. Faster than the crack of a whip, he drew back and hurled the spear with such pinpoint accuracy he could have been shooting a bow; half a heartbeat later they heard a wet thud in the distance, the target skewering its mark.

He was out of the bushes before anyone could react, darting serpentine down the path to the corpse as shouts and a rush of arrows followed. Askeladd couldn’t help but admire his bravery, even though this was all pretty stupid in terms of tactics; he had already found a perfectly defensible spot, now he was wasting time and energy keeping his enemies away from it.

Belatedly it occurred to Askeladd that Bjorn was perhaps doing this out of consideration for his wounds. The thought irritated him; he was no waif, to fret and swoon while some brave warrior swooped in for the rescue. (Who knew how a story like that ever got out, since it had certainly never happened to anyone he knew).

By the time Askeladd had labored to his feet, using the point of his sword as a cane, Bjorn had returned to their shelter. There was an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Get in there and stay away from me,” he said in a horrible, strangled voice, cheeks bulging. He quivered like a leaf in a storm.

“What?”

“I said, stay away from me until it’s over!” He shoved Askeladd away so forcefully that Askeladd sprawled back into the dirt, his sword spinning out of his hand. He didn’t even get a chance to take the impertinent shit to task, as it was a nice sword and he needed it very badly at the moment; before he could open his mouth, six men crashed through the bushes, brandishing crude weapons; a wood axe, rusted hoe; only the last two had fine steel. They advanced, and Bjorn let out an inhuman shriek, bestial and fierce, so startling that their pursuers froze in their tracks. Perhaps they had even stopped breathing. What was the proper response when a bear charges you, foaming at the mouth, your murder in his eyes, and the height of your skill involves taking potshots at unsuspecting passers-by? Run and hide.

Bjorn didn’t give them a chance to figure it out. Still howling, he charged them with his hands clenched into claws, his arms so taut his shirt cut into his skin. He blocked the flat of a blade with his arm, kicking away the assailant so hard that his back snapped. One barely had time to explain in fear before Bjorn had taken him by the neck and smashed his face into a tree, once, twice, before letting him flop to the ground. He spared no second thought; indeed, Askeladd wondered if there was any thought in this trance, anything but furious, desperate instinct.

But one of the swordsmen had fallen back, watching the carnage and his foe with steely eyes, searching for weaknesses. Askeladd saw it on his face when he found one. He crept behind the rampaging Bjorn, currently with his tremendous hands around some outlaw's throat, squeezing, squeezing until he heard the snap. He turned --

Askeladd didn’t know why he bothered. He was telling himself that as he leapt to his feet, ignoring the screaming agony in his thighs, (the agonizing, specific sensation of muscles moving around a shaft of dirty wood) and, in a single fluid motion, drew his sword and skewered the outlaw, pinning them both to a tree. “You know it’s unsporting to attack when a man’s back is turned?” he said cheerfully. No point in mentioning that had been his own tactic.

From there it was quick work. Even hobbled by his wounds, Askeladd mopped up the rest of the outlaws with, if not complete ease, at least decisive command. Perhaps their countrymen would think twice before attempting to penetrate the stronghold of the Danes; even its villages were unsafe, possessed with at least a handful of old and maimed warriors desperate for a last battle, and young men desperate for a first.

Askeladd felt the air move, a wild fist approaching, and without thinking he vaulted away, landing a few armspans away in a bed of leaves. It was Bjorn amid a pile of corpses, though the last of his altered state seemed to have passed. With a pitiful groan, he crumpled into the bloody mud. Despite the screaming pain, Askeladd hurried over to him, sheathing his sword and dropping to his knees. He knew exactly what Bjorn had done.

“You ate too much of that crap,” Askeladd said, chiding. Nausea climbed up his own throat, but he couldn’t help to tease.

“There were a lot of them,” Bjorn said defensively, clutching his gut. “And they weren’t all using farm tools.” His face screwed up in pain as another wave of nausea overtook him, and he retched, splattering bile into the mud. 

Askeladd rubbed his back, despite the excruciating pain in his thighs, with those fucking bolts. “Not that many.”

“Six isn’t that many?!”

Askeladd couldn’t help a sly grin, though the pain made his vision shimmer. “You were trying to show off, weren’t you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, now. Don’t be testy. I’m very impressed.”

But Bjorn wouldn’t smile; his brows furrowed over stormy eyes. “I told you to stay away until it was over.”

“You did, and I decided to ignore your advice.”

Bjorn ducked away from his hand, apparently determined to be as annoying about this as possible. “I could have hurt you.”

“That was a risk I felt comfortable taking.”

“And another thing.” Bjorn’s dark eyes flashed, intensely enough that Askeladd drew back, though the pain was overpowering. “You could have hurt yourself worse. Running around with bolts in your legs, for fuck’s sake. You’re be lucky if you haven’t given yourself permanent damage.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but one of those swordsmen was about to cut your head off. He would have if I hadn’t gotten involved. So! Seems to me, I should be getting some gratitude and not a lecture.”

Bjorn clearly wasn’t pleased with this turnaround; his frown might have etched permanently in his face if he kept at it for longer than a day. But after a long silence, he said, “Thank you for saving me. Even though it was stupid.”

“Well, you’re welcome. Even though it was stupid. Now, please take these fucking bolts out of my legs.”

~

Askeladd feared they’d have to walk back to the village for a healer, but to his surprise Bjorn pulled open a pouch and sifted through its contents before producing one clay vial, three caches of herbs Askeladd didn’t recognize, and clean strips of linen.

“You carry this crap around with you?” Askeladd wondered.

“Sure. Wouldn’t you say it’ll have been useful?”

He had him there. Scowling, Askeladd submitted to Bjorn's care. Askeladd tried to get Bjorn to see to the wound in his shoulder, but after yanking the arrow out and unceremoniously tossing it aside, he waved him off. “It just hit the muscle over the bone,” he said matter-of-factly. “Barely hurts.”

“Now I know that’s a lie.”

“It doesn’t! Crossbow bolts, on the other hand.”

Askeladd looked down at his legs. He had the cold, creeping feeling that this would disable him forever, consign him to a life in bed, trapped in the very place of his torment. Fear made his hands shake. “You’ve done this before?” he said, affecting nonchalance.

Bjorn’s lips pursed, brows furrowing. “No,” he said. “But the village is too far.” He settled himself beside Askeladd and raised his hands over the worst wound, the bolt in his thigh. His fingers barely touched the wood, but the agony was so excruciating that a moan escaped between his clenched teeth. “I’ll be fast as I can,” he promised.

“You better be, if you’re punching that thing all the way through.”

Bjorn’s expression melted into incredulous confusion. “Why the fuck would I make another wound to heal, maybe even longer than it would normally, and shove the rest of that dirty stick through your leg. That makes no sense.”

“That’s how they do it at my village,” Askeladd said, suddenly moved to defend his village’s healers. They worked hard and had cheerful temperaments, which said a lot considering their gruesome work.

“Then they do it wrong. Stop talking, alright? The longer these stay in, the worse it’ll be.” He pursed his lips and handed Askeladd a branch to bite. “I have to angle the arrowhead,” he said by way of apology.

“Just do it already.” Cold sweat beaded on Askeladd’s brow. Could he possibly die here? Brought down by some outlaws and a fucking dirty bolt. If he believed in Valhalla, the prospect would come as a bitter surprise.

Bjorn took off his bandolier and wrapped it tightly around Askeladd’s thigh, explaining at his questioning look: “so you don’t lose more blood.” He placed one hand on Askeladd’s knee, so unbearably gentle that he could barely feel the weight of his hand, just the warmth. The other closed around the bolt. It barely moved, but a hiss of pain still escaped between clenched teeth. He would have very much liked to affect nonchalant strength when it came to wounds and pain, but there was always a small flinch in him, a stubborn weed that resisted all attempts to dislodge it. As dearly as he might wish it, he wasn’t above hurt.

He was trembling so hard his teeth rattled, terrified of a life without the only thing he was any use at, the only thing that came as easily as breathing, but as Bjorn took the bolt in hand, and so carefully, twisted until the arrowhead lined up with the wound. Gently, steadily, he moved; Askeladd’s keening and threatening and pleading washed over him like surf over a stone. There was only Bjorn, and the bolt.

Then the bolt was gone, tossed unceremoniously behind, and Bjorn quickly reached for the clay vial, dabbling a bit of the mixture in the wound until it was completely covered. And that hurt too, but nowhere near as badly as the shaft of wood.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?" 

Askeladd gave him a rancid look. “I will kill you.”

“Calm down. You can’t kill me if you die of blood poisoning.”

He was quicker with the bolt in Askeladd’s calf, which was encouraging; he hardly had time to yell before the accursed thing had been flung across the wood. Askeladd couldn’t help but be impressed; Bjorn learned on the job, constantly applying everything, constantly absorbing. He found himself frustrated by Bjorn’s silence, wondering what was passing behind those wine-colored eyes. There was a spattering of faded freckles on his nose.

He prepared two more mixtures by chewing the leaves into paste and mixing them in a little bowl he kept in his pouch. Askeladd tried to think of something obnoxious to say, but he was growing light-headed sitting in a puddle of his own blood. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Bjorn slathered the mixture in Askeladd’s wounds before wrapping them quickly in linen. Askeladd had been prepared to complain, but to his surprise the pain was actually fading. “What is this?”

“The painkiller?” He beamed. “I found it. I don’t know if anyone else knows about it, but … well, I found it.”

Askeladd watched the beaming idiot, completely agog. “You went around a forest scarfing unfamiliar plants?”

“Well, not eating. I’m not stupid. And I had some notes. You nibble first; usually a poison plant will have this kind of bitterness to it. And the ones that I do know are poisonous share characteristics, so you know what to look out for. I think it’s a nice little thing, myself. I don’t have to share if you’d prefer –”

The pain had matured into a constant ache, from toes to his teeth. “If you hoard my painkiller I will kill you.”

“Nah, you won’t. I just saved you twice, after all.”

~

The journey to Bjorn’s home didn’t take long, which was a mercy Askeladd thought he didn't truly deserve. In the interest of sparing Askeladd’s wounds, he’d clambered onto Bjorn’s back for the remainder of the trip. Though Bjorn was careful to keep his steps slow and even, even jostle hurt so bad that Askeladd’s breath came in short, agonized gasps. “Tell me your home has someplace to lie flat,” he moaned.

“As a matter of fact, we have many such places.”

Bjorn’s home was a misnomer in at least half a dozen ways; smack dab in the flattest, ugliest stretch of land in a emerald garden of forests, far too short to be a longhall, far too removed to be part of the village, far too unwelcoming to be prepared for visitors and well-wishers. They kept a handful of chickens, three sheep, and a goat, from what Askeladd could tell from a glance, though granted his capacity for observation had been diminished. They cut through the yard quickly, coming to stop before the front door, which was guarded by the ugliest man Askeladd had ever seen.

“Who is this?” the man asked, his voice so cold that even Askeladd’s blood froze.

“This is Askeladd, son of Olaf. He was injured fighting for our village, so I offered him our home as thanks while he recovers from his wounds.” His lips twitched by the barest amount; Askeladd only saw because he was looking. “This is my father, Rorik,” said Bjorn.

The older man gestured stiffly. “My home is yours as long as you may need of it, son of Olaf.”

Askeladd propped himself half upright on his good arm, appraising his host over Bjorn’s good shoulder. He had a broad, flat face, and an unfriendly mien, small grey eyes and a thick nose that had been broken at least a dozen times; what remained of his left arm had withered at the elbow, but his single right bicep was nearly half the size of his waist. This man could wield a weapon, likely better than most.

Askeladd ducked his head. “Much obliged, Rorik. I won’t be in your way long.”

“No, you must stay as long as you wish. Bjorn, help me prepare some food for our welcome guest.”

They settled Askeladd near the fire and procured for him the finest furs they owned before Rorik took Bjorn by the arm and hauled him into the back, well out of sight (but not out of earshot, Askeladd thought with relish). What he heard curdled his gut.

“Are you a fucking moron?” the old man hissed, and the sound of a heavy blow echoed through the kitchen. “And take that fucking thing off.” Bjorn’s helm thudded to the ground. “What did you get us involved for?”

“Should I have turned him away, father?” Bjorn asked with innocuous inflection, but Askeladd heard the contempt beneath. “When his family learned of our lack of hospitality, they would come for us. You know how it is.”

"Keep your voice down, dammit. Of course I know that,” Rorik snapped. “Why did you get involved at all? There are dozens of households in the village, all would have been delighted for a chance to stick their noses up that family’s asshole and beg their mighty favors.”

“What’s the problem, father?” Bjorn asked innocently. “Do you have something to hide from the lawspeaker?”

A hiss between teeth, then a blow so hard that it rattled the walls, knocked Bjorn to his feet.

“Don't look at me like that. Don't you ever -- not after –– you little shit --”

The rest of their argument faded into whispered undertone, punctuated by the sound of fists on flesh. Another heavy blow, this time one after another and another, some wet when bone broke skin, some muffled as boot found ribcage, each more savage than the last. Askeladd cursed his immobility – writhing weakly and willing his legs to move despite the agony. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally stopped; the entire longhouse had fallen into sick silence. “Clean that up,” spat Rorik. “And take care of that noble’s son. If he dies, I’ll let them know just who’s responsible.”

The voice from the floor was half-muffled: “Yes, father.”

The nauseating silence continued, punctuated only by heavy footsteps as the old man strode across the room, then, as he hesitated over the threshold: “I don’t suppose it would be too much to expect for you to have actually brought home something useful for once.”

“I don’t know what you mean by useful.”

A long, impatient sigh. “You’re dumb as a bag of rocks. Like jewelry, coin. Something worth anything.”

Askeladd remembered Bjorn’s earlier refusal to accept coin on any terms, and a slow grin crept over his features; he knew something about subversive rebellion under the nose of a tyrant. He liked his rescuer more than he usually liked anyone now, and that was ridiculous. But you couldn’t help but root for an underdog. 

“I’m sorry, father,” came the muffled voice. Askeladd was definitely not imagining the sarcasm.

After a long silence, Rorik turned and stumped awkwardly upstairs. “Pathetic, useless sack of shit, ought to –” But by then he was deeper inside the longhouse and well out of earshot, and the rest of his impotent tirade was lost.

When Bjorn came back to Askeladd’s room about twenty minutes later, his left cheek was mottled black and blue, his lip was split and scabbing over, and there could be no doubt more bruises blooming beneath his clothes. Blood oozed from his purple nose, and his hands trembled as he set the wooden tray at the bedside and poured Askeladd a cup of water. But he grinned.

“Didn’t want any coin, huh?” Askeladd said, linking his hands behind his head.

Bjorn's smirk widened. “He’d spend it on crap, anyway.”

~

 _Fine_. Askeladd really couldn’t help but to like the guy.


	2. Chapter 2

Bjorn didn’t wait for sunrise to retrieve Tove, but then, in twenty-six years as the village healer, she was often being summoned in the middle of the night for various emergencies. (And Bjorn would definitely classify Askeladd’s current condition as such.) “It’s an odd one if a desperate husband isn’t waking me for some such before the moon’s even risen,” she chattered amiably as they climbed up the path to Bjorn’s home. “Seems as if women are only having babies in the middle of the night, eh Bjorn?”

“What would I know anything about that.”

“Plenty, if you’d come along next time.”

“No.”

“How you disappoint a frail, heartsore old woman.”

Bjorn snorted. “Frail?”

“Decrepit. Disintegrating as we speak.”

“You’re full of crap.”

She cackled. “You’re the one taking notes.”

Bjorn adored Tove; after his mother died, he had spent any free moment he had hovering around her workshop, drawn by the scents, the airy light streaming in through the windows, bathing her wares in an otherworldly glow. It was the only peaceful place in his world, a haven of light and beauty, anchorage from grief and abuse. Sensing that need, perhaps, she had taken him as her apprentice and spent the last nine years teaching him all she knew about herblore, healing, anatomy, sketching, and a thousand other smaller things. She often said she kept him around instead of a more appropriate novice because he was twice the size as a normal one and could reach her tall shelves, but they both knew the real reason; they got along famously, and he was willing to do whatever she asked, and only talked back when it would amuse her (which was often). So in the later years they had worked together to discover what more they could; there was no shortage of teeming, striving life in that forest.

He was decent at identifying rare plants and preparing salves and tinctures, but he had no confidence in his ability to properly apply this information to a person in need, let alone stitch up their bleeding wounds. He’d rushed over to get Tove as soon Askeladd had slipped into fevered sleep. Knowing his idiocy, he might have ruined something irreplaceable, or performed a vital function unsatisfactorily. All insecure students rely on their teachers for perspective and encouragement, and Bjorn was no different.

“You said they were crossbow bolts?” Tove asked him as they summited the hill.

“Yeah. One through the thigh, the other through the calf.”

“Did the bolts pass through?”

“No.”

Tove sighed with satisfaction. “Poorly aimed, then. Or the weapon was faulty.”

Bjorn swallowed, a flutter of anxiety twisting his gut. “You’ll fix it, though?”

“Of course, but … I don’t think there will be anything to fix,” she said gently. “You should give yourself more credit.” 

By then they had reached Bjorn’s home; flat and ugly in a verdant place, though you almost couldn’t tell in the middle of the night. He loped up the path, his heart stuck in his throat. There was a part of him that wrestled with his old fear, the flinch from almost a decade ago; what happens when you take your eyes off trouble for a minute, even a second. But Askeladd was just where he had left him: laid out on a pallet near the fire, bunched in sweat-soaked blankets and shivering, his pale hair plastered to his brow, but alive.

Bjorn’s relief was short-lived. He didn’t remember Askeladd in such condition when he left, and he hadn’t spent that much time at Tove’s. There was a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, catching in the low firelight, and his eyelids fluttered against a dream. There was very little of the terrifyingly prodigious swordsman from the beach left in his features, and only a little in the bleary acknowledgement he gave them. Bjorn gently held his leg still while Tova peeled away the makeshift bandage to examine the wound on his calf. “Is it bad?” Bjorn wondered, biting at a hangnail on his thumb until it bled.

“No, Bjorn. This is fine work. I’ll clean and wrap the wounds in some fresh linen, then he’ll only need rest.” A stern look. “Lots of it.”

Bjorn grinned despite himself; he hadn’t known the man long, but he got the feeling this would be an unconscionable, infuriating prospect. Though to be fair to his guest, he would have also found it unbearable. There was always too much to do for him to enjoy any idle time; setting aside his own hunger for experience, he was always waiting for the bellowed command, the smack upside his head.

“What kind of bolts did those monsters use, tree branches?” Tove mused as she pushed aside his shift and stripped the old, bloody bandage from his thigh, before peering closer. “This is nearly a fingerjoint wide.”

“I didn’t think to ask them.”

“Smart mouth.” She tossed the bloody linen aside, before dabbing the wound with a foul-smelling mixture. She was sure, almost unconscious in her efforts; decades of experience had imprinted the habits bone deep. He wondered how many years of work before he’d be able to manage the same surety. Before Bjorn could comment again, to distract from the sigh of blood and bare skin, she was wrapping Askeladd’s leg and tying off the knot with strong fingers, firmly, but never ungentle.

“How long will it take to heal?” He was anxious for his guest to improve, of course, but a small, horrible part of him wanted him to stay – not even forever, just long enough to change things a little. But Askeladd would resume his journey to his family, and things would go back to the way they were for Bjorn; he knew that. He _did_.

Tove tapped her chin. “Few weeks. Maybe a month or two. I don’t see any reason there should be permanent damage, unless he refuses to mind his healers and stay in bed.” Said in such a tone that suspected their patient was awake and listening.

Askeladd opened his blearily, the smallest of smiles curving his lips. “Did he tell you about his shoulder?”

Tove rounded on him, eyes flashing; she of course already knew the answer. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” Bjorn mumbled.

“Did you treat it?”

“I was too busy taking care of you all night!” he snapped at Askeladd, the horrible traitor. How justly his kindness was repaid!

Tove never had to yell or smack him around; the ice in her eyes was enough. “Sit,” she ordered. “Show me the wound.”

“It’s barely anything, it just hit me right over the bone, not even that deep –”

“Show it to me now.”

Chastened, Bjorn plopped on a stool in the corner and pulled the neck of his threadbare tunic to the side, hoping the awkward angle would obscure the particularities, but Tove was impossible to fool. “Off,” she commanded.

An irritable sigh, then he yanked the tunic over his head, bunching it in his lap. Tove snatched it away. “See?” he said. “It’s barely anything.”

It was uncomfortably quiet. Bjorn’s cheeks burned as two stares fixed on him, on the black and blue patches over his ribs, and abruptly he was annoyed with himself; what did he have to be ashamed of? Tove was already cleaning it out, using the most stringent mixture in her kit, just to make a point. He bit down on the hiss of pain; otherwise, he’d never hear the end of it. “This could have gotten out of control very easily, Bjorn. You know you can come to me for these things.”

He knew that, of course. He knew that she would never begrudge being woken in the middle of the night for the latest bruise or broken bone, but the offer both annoyed and embarrassed him. “Alright,” he mumbled.

Tove sighed; she knew he wasn’t convinced. That was the problem with Tove; you couldn’t lie to her. She saw the truth in your face, the way you moved your body, the tone of your voice. _People are a difficult ocean_ , she would say _, but I’m a keen sailor._

She brushed her thumb over one of the worst bruises on his ribs, and he bit his lip to keep from wincing; just the sensation of air moving over it was painful. “I suppose these are from training as well?” Tove asked in a tone that suggested she knew exactly where they’d come from. “Or the battle?”

“Something like that,” Bjorn said defiantly. “Can I have my tunic back now?”

“You won’t let me put some salve on them?”

“I don’t need it. Honestly, it looks worse than it is.” He pushed away her hands. “Save it for an actual problem.”

Tove handed his tunic back to him without a word, and he dragged it over his head, scowling. He despised being pitied. Something about the display made him feel absurdly guilty, like he was supposed to give something back but had no idea what.

They gave Askeladd some hot mead and sat with him until he fell back asleep. Bjorn studied his face, the straight line of his nose, a slash of a smile. He was formidable on the battlefield, his sword living silver in his hands, but here he looked diminished, shrunken. Bjorn wondered if there had been poison on those bolts, if they were the cause for Askeladd’s tenuous condition. He wouldn’t put such a thing past their attackers; their bitterness would make the prospect of protracted suffering attractive. But the only thing they could do now was keep the wounds clean and dry and wait.

By the time Tove had finished her ministrations, the moon had dipped halfway to the horizon. She wanted to walk alone and let Bjorn rest, as he’d had an unbelievably busy day, but he adamantly refused; especially today, the roads could be dangerous, and she was an old woman. His duty was clear.

But it wasn’t a bad night for such duty. The air was cool, not cold, refreshing as a splash from a mountain stream, and the stars studded the sky, beautiful and remote. The thought of outlaws hiding in the forest made him apprehensive, though perhaps any would assume an old woman didn’t have anything valuable on her. Unlike earlier, however, Tove had fallen into preoccupied silence; not even the presence of a mysterious stranger with serious wounds, normally her favorite subjects, could move her.

Bjorn could take no more. When they reached her home, he blurted, “What are you angry about?”’

“I’m not angry,” she said, pushing open the door and stepping inside. For the first time in all their years of knowing one another, she sounded her age, ancient as the earth. He flushed; for most people, long silences weren’t the fomenting of later abuse. Wincing, he closed the door behind them. He knew what this was about.

“Listen, it’s my fault, most of the time,” he said, absurdly moved to father’s defense, though of course he didn’t deserve it. “I provoke him.”

She looked up at him sharply. “That is no excuse. You provoke me constantly and I don’t beat you within an inch of your life.”

“That’s exaggerating.”

“Have you seen your face?”

He hadn’t, and he had no intention of making such a study now. “I don’t care about that.”

“You should. It looks like he bashed half your face in with a rock.”

 _That’s about what it felt like_. “Will you stop exaggerating?”

She shook her head, pacing the firepit. “Have you ever thought about leaving, Bjorn?”

“…What?”

“You’re old enough. You could go anywhere.”

“And leave you behind?”

“Yes.”

Bjorn was quiet for a long time. The truth pressed at him, crowding his tongue; what he wanted so badly, waging war against what was expected. “She … wouldn’t have wanted me to abandon him.”

“Oh, Bjorn.” Said like a sigh. “You can’t know that.”

“I do know,” he said, suddenly angry. “Just leave it, alright?”

“You could very well have broken ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?”

He refused to answer that. “It’s not nearly as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

She shook her head. “And if he doesn’t kill you … There is something so kind about you, and he will crush it. It’s a miracle he hasn’t broken it out of you already.”

Bjorn attempted a smile, though it lacked any center; this conversation made him feel worse than any beating ever had. “Shouldn’t that tell you nothing will?” he said, more for her benefit.

Tove only shook her head, her eyes bright. “Everyone can break. Everyone has a limit to what they can bear. And I don’t know what you'll be, then. Goodness broken is a terrible thing to behold.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She continued on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Evil men, it’s all they’ve known, there’s no tragedy in their depravity, only horror. He only ever is what he is. A good man broken knows what’s right and wrong, but he no longer cares. Strictures of morality are contemptible to him, he who has been so soundly betrayed by them.” Tears shone in her eyes. “Evil is a void; once you step inside, there’s nothing that can bring you back.”

“What a miserable outlook for a healer,” Bjorn said, cajoling; he hated to see her cry. “You’re supposed to believe you can fix anything.”

“Only fools believe that, dear one.” She crossed the room and took the finest plate on her shelf, something she had heard of in stories of faraway lands, something that only came around once a decade on a trader’s cart, something he only knew about because she loved it so much, and raised it high above her head.

Bjorn reached out in horror. “What are you doing?!” But it was too late; she hurled the plate on the ground, where it shattered into a dozen pieces. Bjorn could only gape at the wreckage, speechless, before looking up at her.

She hadn’t even flinched; her expression was a hard mask. “My point is that once something is broken, that can never be undone. You may attempt to heal the damage, but a scar will remain. There is no going back to what you had before.”

Bjorn was so profoundly irritated with this philosophy and disgusted with her example that he carefully gathered up the shards and stuffed them in random pockets of his cloak when her back was turned. He refused to accept her lesson; perhaps you couldn’t cure death, but there was a lot of room to maneuver between that space. A scar wasn’t something to revile; it was a badge of honor, a mark of survival. What emerged from pain was stronger.

When he returned that evening, he made supper and cleared away the plates, changed Askeladd’s bandages and cleared out the hearth again, busying himself with a dozen chores he had already done until Rorik finally slipped off into a drunken stupor. Free of his malevolent influence, Bjorn stayed up all night, laboring over his philosophical point. He shook out a linen cloth over his table and arranged the shards until they resembled their former shape.

“What are you doing?” came a voice from behind, shuffling steps across the packed dirt.

Bjorn didn’t startle. “I’m fixing something.”

Askeladd surveyed the scene, one pale brow arching toward his hairline. “Why not just get a new one?” he wondered.

“I’m making a point,” Bjorn sighed. "These don't come around often." 

“Well, now! That’s just as important.” Carefully he arranged himself at the table across from Bjorn, his piercing blue eyes following the progress of Bjorn’s hands. Bjorn tried to ignore how nervous this made him, focusing instead on the shards. There were three large ones, and ten small ones. The point wasn’t just to repair, but to make it so lovely that the wound could almost be worth it, one lovely thing in an ocean of hurt.

He had no luxurious materials that would make the repair beautiful on its own, no gold or silver mixed with the composite resin he intended to use as a bonding agent, thus he was forced to improvise. He kept concentrated wealth out of the house, buried beneath a massive stump at the edge of the forest, because otherwise it had a habit of disappearing into Rorik’s fucking cups. How wonderful it would be when the miserable shithead drank himself into his grave, Bjorn thought spitefully. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

It took Bjorn the better part of the night just to arrive on a solution, but when he did, he was filled with complete certainty; this was the way to do it. This was a place of limited resources and infrequent traders; nothing was wasted. Tomorrow he would wait until the sun touched the horizon to pick around the beach for any stones with some shine on them, pink, purple, the stormy grey-blue of a troubled sea. It would be hard to repurpose them, but Bjorn couldn’t help a grin. He was right, and he was going to make a _point_.

~

Askeladd never made this comparison, for obvious reasons; his experience always trumped hyperbole. But after a few days of observation there was no other way to describe it: Bjorn worked like a slave. What should have taken a family of four to complete, Bjorn did alone; while Rorik sat in his loft and carved his carvings and brooded, Bjorn made the meals, scrubbed every surface, did the laundry and hung it out to dry, mended snags and holes, fed and cared for the animals, swept out the ashes and stoked the fire, and then, only then, when his chores were completed was he permitted to train, which he did with single-minded ferocity.

It hurt to move, but Askeladd couldn’t bear lying in bed for another minute. He followed the sound of Bjorn, each grunt as he hurled the training spear, dirt scuffing as he bounced on the balls of his feet, cursing when he missed his target. His brows rose when he caught sight of Askeladd in the doorway. “You should be resting,” he admonished.

“You should mind your business,” Askeladd shot back. “I’m bored, and this is interesting.” He arranged himself on a rudimentary bench propped against the side of the house, wrapped in furs to ward away the chill, and flashed his host an insouciant grin. “Pretend I’m not here.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Oh?”

Bjorn colored, looking away. “You can’t ignore someone if they’re watching you try to pull off something difficult. Judging.”

Askeladd snickered. “You have performance anxiety.”

Bjorn rounded on him, the base of the spear kicking up dust as he whipped around. “Why are you such an asshole!”

 _Touchy today._ “Calm down. It’s very precious.”

In his temper, he had gone red to the tips of his ears, which was especially hilarious; there was something about him that made him particularly fun to bait. Though Askeladd firmly corrected himself after a moment; that wasn’t special. He liked baiting everyone, poking and prodding, puzzling out what drove them. “All right, I really am sorry. I’ll go away if you prefer.”

After a moment composing himself, Bjorn sighed. “You don’t have to go away. I’d be bored lying around all day, too, I guess.” A rueful look at the house. “Though can’t deny a little break would be nice.”

“Switch places?”

That did it; a smirk touched Bjorn’s lips. “Nah.”

Settling in his furs, he closed his eyes and listened to Bjorn’s amiable chatter. There was something satisfying about his voice, something in the tone that invited both interest and safety. It took too long for the observation to annoy him.

Bjorn rolled the spear in his hand, the blade _whinging_ as it spun. “About a day’s walk north there’s a village I go sometimes to sell Rorik’s carvings, and the last time I was there I saw a woman who could throw two spears at the same time. She never missed, not once in the hour I watched. I was desperate to know how she did it – it takes enough of my focus just to hit one target, let alone another at the same time. Do you look at one and then the other, while keeping the first image in your mind? Or do you split the difference somehow and look at the middle? I never got a chance to ask, so I gotta muddle it out myself.”

“Have you?”

“Forget two at once. I can’t even throw well enough with my left to hit the target in the first place.”

“Show me.”

“I just said that I can’t!”

Askeladd gestured imperiously. “I want to see.”

“You’re incredibly pushy, you know that?”

“Had it occurred to you, perhaps, that I might be able to offer some guidance?”

“Oh, could you? Good at the spear, are you?”

He couldn’t keep from snickering. “ _You’re_ incredibly sensitive, you know that?”

Bjorn mashed his lips together and rounded on the target, falling into a ready stance. He’d complained about not knowing how to use his left arm, but you would never know it looking at him; his posture was perfect, the spear a part of his arm, each muscle taut as a bowstring. Dark auburn hair caught in the frosty autumn light as he drew back, with a sharp breath, and threw.

For a moment it seemed like it would strike true, but the blade _pinged_ off the target and sent the spear spinning across the yard. _“Damn it,”_ Bjorn cursed, trotting over to snatch it out of the dirt. “I told you.”

“That was a close one, though.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not! It hit the target and everything. You just need to tighten it up a bit.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Don’t be sulky, its unbecoming.”

Before Bjorn had a chance to retort, a rude sound at the doorway caught both of their attention. It was Rorik, looking stormy; his grey eyes were chips of ice in a visage of snow. “Could you fucking keep it down?” he ground out between his teeth. “I can’t hear myself think.”

 _What use is that, exactly?_ Askeladd thought spitefully. Bjorn chewed his lip. “I’m sorry, father. I was just training.”

“You were blathering.” He shot an irritated look at Askeladd, as if all noise on earth was his fault somehow. Rorik had bitter, sullen audacity, it couldn’t be denied; not many would dare be so hostile to an honored guest. Askeladd, who had spent the last few days rather enjoying said ‘blathering’, felt his dislike for the man deepen.

Bjorn noticed it too. “Will you show us how it’s done?” his tone was flat, devoid of both interest and sarcasm, so deadly serious it raised a chill on the back of Askeladd’s neck.

Rorik said nothing. The horrible quiet stretched too long; even the birds had fallen silent. In one smooth, terrible motion, he ripped the spear out of Bjorn’s hands and hurled it at the target with so much force that it shattered completely upon impact, showering them in shards of wood. The head of the spear spun off into the bushes, catching sunlight. Askeladd could only gape in sick awe. The man hadn’t paused to think or aim; the target had already been in his mind, ready and waiting for deadly application. Nor had his halved arm compromised his balance in any way; he was more than accustomed to the lack.

“Clean that shit up,” Rorik said, lips curling.

They waited until Rorik had gone back inside before Bjorn turned toward the devastation. He picked through the pieces of wood until he found a fragment of the center target and knelt to snatch it out of the rest of the debris. His mouth moved as he counted the notches, tallying his own count against them.

“He hit it?” Askeladd said, in a hush.

“Of course, the miserable bastard,” Bjorn muttered, scooping up pieces of wood. “I wouldn’t’ve had to make a new target for a few months, dammit.” He sighed, quietly enough that it wouldn’t draw any hostile attention. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Askeladd didn’t have to wait long. Only a few minutes had passed before Bjorn re-emerged from the longhouse, pulling a handcart stuffed with furs and blankets behind him. He gestured awkwardly at Askeladd’s inquiring look. “I’m going to the waterfront. You can stay here and lay around if you like, but I thought you’d want to get out some more.”

“You want me to ride in that?”

“I’m not carrying you on my back for half a day,” Bjorn huffed. “Honestly.”

Askeladd couldn’t help but smirk. “Fair enough.”

The extra insulation proved useful in keeping his wounded leg from jostling about too much as the cart bumped over the grass. Bjorn was careful to avoid overly treacherous and difficult ground, so the trek was pleasant; the afternoon sunlight had a distant, chilly quality to it, the kind possible only after harvest. Askeladd took a deep breath in through his nose. After days stuck inside, trying to ignore the pain, it was good to be out.

“Is your father usually so charming?” Askeladd asked. “Or am I the cause of a special mood.”

Bjorn was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think it’s you. Anyway, he usually avoids me for longer after a real tanning,” he said finally, with a wary look back at the house, even though they were well away by now. “Looking at the bruises makes him feel guilty.”

“If that were true, seems to me like he’d lay off.”

Bjorn shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”

“How do you know he feels badly, then?” 

“I look like my mother,” he said matter-of-factly, and Askeladd could see it, though he’d never seen her; there was very little of Rorik in Bjorn’s features or coloring. If Bjorn had thought to encourage sympathy for his father with this information, however, he had miscalculated.

“You presumably look like her when he’s beating you, too.”

Bjorn shook his head again, as if Askeladd’s lack of understanding wasn’t frustrating so much as exhausting. “Never mind.”

“Hey,” Askeladd cut in, unexpectedly moved toward concern, “should you even be dragging me all over the place with your shoulder?”

Bjorn hiked the cart up, increasing his pace. “I’d forgotten there was anything even wrong with it.”

“You’re a liar.”

“How do you know? You don’t know what my shoulder feels like.”

Askeladd grinned. “I can reasonably infer based on my own experiences.”

“Maybe I have a higher threshold for discomfort than you.”

“See, but how do _you_ know I can’t also tolerate a lot?”

“I don’t. Which is why I said ‘maybe’.”

Before he could stop himself, he laughed. “Smartass.” His tone was appreciative, as only one can acknowledge another (and how little chance he’d ever had to in the past! He couldn’t describe how satisfying it was to trade barbs with someone capable.) Bjorn said no more, only cast a look over his shoulder, wearing a slow and steady grin. And with the bruise taking over half his eager face, and the bandage poking out of the neck of his tunic, he seemed a constant survivor, if he could withstand the fury of that beast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me: this is too softe i can't post this  
> [yall](https://taghashromer.tumblr.com) [nasty](https://calonari.tumblr.com) [enablers](https://minikawa.tumblr.com) : noo u gotta its not cringe lol
> 
> (thank you so much to everyone for reading, bookmarking, subscribing, kudoing, and leaving me your thoughts in comments <333)

In the afternoon, a cold wind swept down from the northeast, buffeting the ripening landscape. The color leeched from the sea, from navy to hard slate, but Askeladd didn’t feel the chill or notice any bleakness. With a grudging smile, he settled into his furs and watched as Bjorn sifted through a soggy pile of debris on the beach, warm brown and blue and green, the only point of color in this grey world. He had tied back his dark auburn hair into a knot at the nape of his neck and rolled the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows, so as not to dirty them as he worked. Every few moments a wave would spill over the sand, eddying around his footprints, reflecting a sky the color of a gull’s wing.

“You should let me help you,” Askeladd offered.

“Nope. Stay put.”

“Ha! You’re quite bossy.”

“Don’t be a child. This is your healer’s prerogative.”

“Is that right.”

“Sure. You know a healer is the highest authority anywhere,” Bjorn said with a smug little grin, picking through the shells. “Everything they tell you has to be obeyed, as a matter of life or death.”

“I’m fairly certain my walking around a little isn’t a life or death matter.”

“Maybe not, but it could involve more time spent off your feet, or permanent damage. You’d agree that’s at least somewhat serious, right?”

“Permanent damage,” Askeladd muttered. “I’m guessing the thought of unassailable authority is appealing to you.”

Bjorn rolled his eyes and chucked a pebble at the cart, smirking as it ricocheted off the side into the beachgrass. “All I mean is that a healer doesn’t even have to order you to do what they think is best, or spend a lot of time convincing you that they’re right and trustworthy; because everyone in the room already knows it’s in your best interest to listen. They know things you don’t, have experience you don’t. Especially if you already have a local reputation, but even without; as you pass through some strange village tell everyone you’re a healer and see how you’re treated. Who else has their suggestions treated like law?”

“You make it sound like healers are never wrong.”

“I never said that.”

_“’A healer’s suggestion is law’?”_

“ _Like_ law.” That placid grin widened. “And laws can be wrong too. I’m just saying. You _normally_ don’t have to spend a lot of time convincing someone or twist their arm to listen to you.”

 _Little pedant._ Askeladd could barely contain his delight. “You are insufferable.”

“Yep.”

“You want to know what I think?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway, I bet.”

Askeladd donned his most obnoxious smirk and leaned casually against the edge of the cart, cocking his head. _“I_ think all this fussing about permanent damage is an excuse.”

“For?”

“You just want to keep me around for longer.”

Bjorn rocked back on his heels and guffawed so loudly that a pair of birds a few paces away took flight in an indignant rustle of wings. “Well, sure, why not?” he said, tossing another stone into the pail. “Guests are interesting.”

He hadn’t expected Bjorn to immediately agree with his assessment – but neither had he really given anything away. “Yes, but I’m especially interesting,” he prodded.

“Mhm. Fixing you up’s been pretty good practice.”

With a scowl, Askeladd sank back into his furs, pulling them tighter around his shoulders. “Do you not get practice otherwise?”

Bjorn held up a shell, examining it in the weak afternoon light. “Not usually with live people.”

“So with dead people.”

“Hm … I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Now you have to.”

Bjorn tossed one last shell into his pail and stood, brushing the wet sand from his knees. He shrugged in appeal. “No, not dead people. Pigs.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why would I lie?” ( _Why indeed,_ thought Askeladd.) “Tove says they’re closest to people, the consistency of the flesh is similar. It was pretty good practice with stitchwork and figuring out what is where, but you can’t actually heal a corpse. Also the stink was unbelievable. You only have so much time until rot ruins the skin and it gets too soft to work with.”

“This is disgusting, you know.”

“But useful.”

He couldn’t really argue with that. “Well, I’m glad I could be at least as much service as a dead pig.”

“Yeah, it’s a good start.” He flashed Askeladd that rotten little smile as he unfolded his sleeves and tied them at the wrists. “Since I did save your life and all. Though when your leg heals up, I expect those lessons.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Askeladd said, amused. “Do you own a sword?”

“Not yet. I have some coin hidden away for one, though.” Bjorn deposited the pail in Askeladd’s arms and took the handles of the cart in hand, hitching it up and dragging it out of the sand and shale, until they were bumping over solid ground once more. “Rorik has one in his loft somewhere. Supposedly he got it off some Frank noble, but I think he’s full of shit. ‘The finest steel north of the _Danevirke_.’” He snorted. “Makes him feel better, I guess.”

Askeladd was quiet. In his mind’s eye, he saw that beast of a man with a sword clenched in his grip; his size would render any weapon ridiculous, superfluous, no better than a child’s toy. A taunt to whoever was stupid enough to challenge him; he could just as easily kill with one massive hand alone. “He any good with that sword?”

Bjorn didn’t answer immediately; Askeladd couldn’t see his expression, but the line of his shoulders seemed suddenly tight. “I’ve never seen him use it.”

“I suppose it’s a stupid question.”

In the distance was the whisper of waves on the shore, a rushing surf just over the low hills. He had grown so accustomed to the ubiquitous sound in his own home that he more noticed its absence, but here it had somehow become new, the perfect accompaniment to the red gold leaves fluttering in the wind, branches quivering, the creaking of the handcart as Bjorn bore them steadily along. He cast a worried glance up at the sky, where a dark grey squall line advanced from the northeast. “Shit.”

Askeladd laughed. “It’s just a little rain. I won’t melt.”

“You shouldn’t be getting your wounds wet,” Bjorn said, picking up his pace; Askeladd saw that his arms trembled from the strain. Understandable, considering he’d been hauling a cart full of dead weight around after a strenuous handful of days. “I didn’t think the weather would break so fast.”

“You worry too much.”

Bjorn huffed. “I’d say its proportional, actually. Rot is objectively worrisome.” From over his shoulder, he flashed him an impressive scowl. “You don’t worry enough.”

“Not about this, anyway.” Askeladd did have a slight headache and some chills, and his wounds itched terribly, yet he felt breezy, light; inordinately fond of almost everything in view. Not even when the clouds broke and a freezing rain descended on the landscape did his mood darken. Instead, the sound of Bjorn’s muttered cursing beneath the downpour was strangely endearing; interesting that he should work himself into such a state over someone hardly better than a stranger. It had been a while since anyone was so invested in his welfare – he told himself it made no matter that Bjorn’s interest was in improving his craft. That was interesting, too.

Askeladd tipped his face up to the sky, closing his eyes. The rain bathed his cheeks, plastering his hair to his scalp and wet clothes to skin. The furs had become stringy and rank in the water, and he had long since gone numb from the cold, but that was familiar too, from the days before he was anything important. Even now he could clearly remember the sound of the steady downpour on the roof of the stable as he watched rain shimmer beyond its awning, catching in the faint light of torches. He had given his shivering mother all the blankets; she had been so frail, and her comfort made the damp and cold easier to bear.

The next thing he knew, Bjorn was helping him out of the cart, slinging an arm around his waist and pulling Askeladd’s across his shoulders. He might have made some comment about moving under his own power, (‘permanent damage’) but over the course of the afternoon, he had become too shaky and weak for it to be much of a joke. The rain had increased from a drizzle to a deluge, and his headache pressed insistently at his temples, a flutter of nausea twisting his gut. The worst part was he hadn’t even really noticed or cared; he had been enjoying himself too much.

When they pushed through the front door, only perfect darkness met them, a rush of stale air buffeting them back over the threshold. “Father?” Bjorn called. Silence answered.

“He left in this weather?” Askeladd wondered as Bjorn helped him over to his pallet.

“Likely before it started,” Bjorn replied, casting a worried glance over his shoulder. “Sometimes he leaves for a few days without saying anything beforehand.”

“Don’t imagine he says what he’s up to, either.”

“Nope, and I don’t plan on asking.”

“Probably smart.”

Askeladd watched with hazy interest as Bjorn bustled about the room – rekindling the firepit, putting on a kettle of water, procuring tinctures and linen for whatever procedure he had in mind for Askeladd. He rummaged around a chest nearby his own pallet before producing a clean tunic and trousers, passing them to Askeladd: “Put these on and let me dry your clothes.”

The way he phrased it was annoying _; let me continue to take care of you._ As if it were some privilege. Askeladd marveled at his affect, how there was no resentment or irritation in it despite having to go well out of his way for an invalid, spending what free time he had tending to whatever little disasters emerged, and wondered if he’d cared for someone like this before.

As he stripped his sodden clothes, Bjorn wrung out his own by the doorway, shaking out his shaggy hair and squeezing out the excess rainwater before tying it back again. By the time Askeladd had pulled the overlarge tunic over his head, Bjorn was hovering over a table in the corner and sifting through the contents strewn across its surface, pushing aside a bundle of sticks.

“What is it?” Askeladd wondered at his expression.

Bjorn bound up the last of the loose flowers with a strand of twine, frowning deeply. “This isn’t where I left everything. Rorik’s been pawing through my stuff.”

Askeladd was impressed that he kept such strict watch over his work, and that he knew it well enough to recognize when it was meddled with. “Does he usually?”

“No.” A sour twist of his lips. “He’s usually threatening to trash it.”

After hanging up Askeladd’s clothes to dry near the firepit, he returned to Askeladd’s pallet and dropped to his knees, neatly laying out his supplies on the ground. There were clean strips of linen, a wooden bowl of salve, a pot of hot water and a jug of what smelled like mead. At his questioning look, Bjorn shrugged with a sheepish expression. “The mead helps burn out the rot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I tried it on one myself once. I cut my hand training and a little rot set in, so Tove had me drain it and clean it with some hot mead, and the thing healed right up in half the time it would’ve taken normally.” A huff of breath. “I wouldn’t try something I didn’t know worked on you.”

“That’s very reassuring.”

“I probably should have done this yesterday,” Bjorn mused as he rolled up the leg of Askeladd’s trousers and unraveled the bandage on his calf, peering at it closely. “This one looks alright. Does it hurt too much?”

“Just itches.”

Bjorn swabbed it with the mead anyway, carefully spreading salve onto the inflamed skin until satisfied, then wrapping it again, all within the space of a minute. He had spoken confidently of his work on the beach, but Askeladd still appreciated watching Bjorn in motion, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration, the skill in his steady hands. He had moved on to the wound on Askeladd’s thigh before Askeladd could think to say anything about it, unraveling the bandage and peeling it aside.

After brief observation and one studious sniff, Bjorn clicked his tongue in dismay. “I have to drain this one.”

His stomach clenched. “Am I going to lose my leg, oh healer of mine?”

“If you keep making things difficult for me, maybe.”

It was obvious he’d done this before. With ease borne of experience, he withdrew his dagger from its sheath and swiped the blade clean before leaning over Askeladd’s leg. In his left hand he held a clean square of linen against the wound; so carefully that he seemed to hardly move, he eased the point of the blade against the swollen red skin until it gave, mopping up pus without touching any of it with his bare fingers. The agony was blinding; Askeladd’s hand fisted in the furs, teeth clenched so hard he felt his jaw creak as white-hot flame burned through his thigh. If he opened his mouth, he would groan or cry out or make some other ridiculous sound, so he closed his eyes and kept his lips firmly mashed together.

“Can I ask you something?” Bjorn wondered after he’d finished draining the wound, dabbing it carefully with mead.

Through the haze of pain, Askeladd flashed his host a fuzzy smile, latching onto the incongruity to distract himself. _Strange to seek permission._ “Sure,” he said from between his teeth. “I may not answer, though.”

“Why were you traveling alone?” Bjorn asked, his gaze flickering up to his face before dropping back to the damage.

Askeladd shrugged. “Why not?”

“Safety in numbers, for one.”

“Maybe I wasn’t interested in safety.”

“Hm.”

The truth was he detested his home, and couldn’t stand to be around any of the people in it a second longer. Their obnoxious blathering scraped his nerves raw, the same bland subjects bandied about day in and day out, the same ugly sensibilities, and stupidity so profound it twisted his gut into knots. Their laughter grated; the greetings chafed. The interest of women left him particularly disgusted, especially their clamor for marriage; he affected as much interest as was strictly necessary to avoid suspicion, but the performance exhausted him. Did Bjorn sense the lie? He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him cause to wonder. “Sometimes you just have to set out on your own,” he explained. “To see if you can.”

“Mhm.”

 _He knows you’re lying,_ Askeladd thought, alarmed. This time he hadn’t even been completely lying, only using a small fragment of the truth to obscure his motives, which usually worked on people; a hint of sincerity was enough to convince. But Bjorn didn’t look convinced; his expression was smooth, unreadable. By now he’d finished cleaning the wound, burning out whatever corruption remained; he pressed a clean square of linen to inflamed skin before securing it by wrapping a longer piece around his thigh, tying it carefully and rolling down Askeladd’s trousers. His motions were firm, yet gentle; not once did he jar his leg.

“Well,” said Bjorn finally, rocking back on his heels and tossing aside the dirtied linen. “You ought to consider how useful having at least one other person around was.”

“Was it?”

“I’ve lost count how many times I’ve saved your life in the last three days. I’d say that’s at least of some use.”

“Eh.”

With a little smile, Bjorn got to his feet.

He spent the rest of the night working; cooking, procuring more clean furs for Askeladd before wandering over to his worktable and plopping down onto the stool, pouring out the spoils of his scavenging from earlier and sorting them into piles. Askeladd sank more deeply into the pallet and drifted in and out of consciousness; despite the throbbing of his leg, he was lulled by the warmth of the fire and the sound of rain on the roof, and every few moments a sigh from across the room, steady hands at work.

~

Askeladd woke with a dry mouth and headache, his wounds itching so fiercely that he half feared insects were responsible. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows, filling the room with the scent of wet grass and rotting leaves, with a hint of the sea on the breeze. Across the room, Bjorn was slumped at his table, head buried in his arms, shoulders lifting and falling with each slow breath.

Perfect. Careful not to rustle the blankets or bandage, Askeladd rubbed at his calf as stridently as he thought he could get away with. He _would_ have perhaps, had the motion not jostled a wooden bowl beside his pallet.

Bjorn’s head snapped up immediately; there was no fooling him, apparently not even while asleep. “What are you doing?” he said, rubbing at bleary eyes.

“Losing my mind,” Askeladd ground out, scratching harder now. It hurt badly enough to bring tears to his eyes, but at least the itch abated.

Bjorn crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees at Askeladd’s side. “Stop. You’re going to rip it open.”

“You’re pushy.”

“And you’re a baby. It’s an itch, for fuck’s sake. I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I’m going to rip this off.”

Bjorn grabbed his wrists before he could try anything. “Don’t make me hold you down.”

“As if you could.”

“Are you so used to getting your way?” That gave Askeladd pause – not a question a former slave is accustomed to hearing. “Just think about something else and you’ll forget about it.”

Askeladd yanked his wrists out of Bjorn’s hands and flopped back into his pillow, heart racing. “So, distract me,” he said with a portentous gesture.

“You’re right, _I’m_ the pushy one,” Bjorn said with a little smirk, rolling to his feet. He busied about his table, gathering up the bucket of shells and quartz, along with a chisel and a few bowls, before settling back down beside Askeladd, crossing his long legs.

“You want any help?” Askeladd asked him.

“Nah.”

Askeladd supposed that had been a stupid question; you probably had to just step in and help without asking him for permission. “Come on,” he urged. “Many hands make light work.”

Bjorn considered for a moment. “Alright. Do you want to chisel some quartz into pieces, or separate the inside and outside of a shell?”

“What?”

“The smooth and shiny part. Just flake it off with a knife.” He unsheathed his dagger from his belt and demonstrated, eyes narrowed in concentration as he wedged the tip of the blade into the shell’s edge, easing it until a smooth piece flaked off into the bowl. “Don’t worry about how big the pieces are.”

“Is this for any particular purpose, or are you inventing things for me to do?”

“It’s for Tove’s plate. This’ll make the colors in the resin right.”

Askeladd clucked his tongue. “How _nice_ of you, Bjorn.”

“Will you shut up? It’s not nice,” Bjorn said, glowering over at him. “It’s practical.”

 _Very interesting._ There had been little practicality in his spending an entire afternoon sifting through the sand for the exact colors he wanted, but Askeladd chose not to mention that.

“You don’t just break things to make a point,” Bjorn was muttering, scraping at a piece of quartz with his chisel, brushing the granules into his bowl. “Do you know how rare that thing is? I’ve never seen another one like it in my entire life. You don’t just wreck your stuff for some rhetorical advantage, it’s stupid.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Askeladd prodded. “What if it was really important. A vitally important abstract to illuminate.”

“No abstract is more important than something you can actually hold in your hands and use, something that helps your life and makes it more interesting. No finger wagging compares. Honestly.” Bjorn looked up from his task, brow wrinkling incredulously. “Why are you agreeing with her, anyway? Do you have so many things that you can spare smashing them to make a point?”

Askeladd was starting to appreciate his practical bent, even though it often appeared he used it to justify tender sensibilities at odds with social expectation. It wasn’t shameful to learn healing, it was useful; Askeladd had no doubt that in his life it must have been. “I don’t agree with her,” Askeladd replied, amused. “I just wanted to hear what you really thought about it.”

Bjorn scowled and turned back to his work. “You like baiting people.”

Askeladd beamed; he would let him have that one. “Very much.” He pried off a piece of the shell’s lining and let the flakes drop in his own bowl. “They’re not usually so forthright.”

“Why should they need to be, with someone they don’t know?”

 _Because I can’t control what I don’t understand._ “No need but my own amusement.”

“Hm.”

“What made you think of this, anyway?” Askeladd wondered, holding up the half-stripped shell.

“I use that resin to repair cracks all the time,” Bjorn said with another shrug. “I thought this would be interesting to try.”

“You’ll risk something you don’t know works on those pieces?”

“I was going to test it first,” Bjorn said, irritated. “Obviously.”

“Smart,” Askeladd said, snickering. “It’s lucky your father stepped out, then, isn’t it?” He made an expansive gesture. “You have all this time to _perfect_ your craft. No women’s work to perform.”

“Whatever that means,” Bjorn muttered, scratching behind his ear. “If I didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done at all.”

“You could always get a slave,” Askeladd said, testing.

Bjorn’s brow furrowed over hard eyes. “I’m not complaining about the type of work. I don’t mind it, to be honest,” he explained with a shrug. “I _like_ it, but people act like I shouldn’t. I don’t know what the problem really is, outside of them saying that it’s a problem. I never understood why, I guess.”

Of course he didn’t understand; such prejudice wasn’t practical. More interesting was that Bjorn chose to confide such a socially backward truth to someone he’d only known for a few days. It would be easy to dismiss it as simple incaution, or desperation to confess to the first halfway willing ear to happen along – but that wasn’t exactly true, as he had a willing ear in Tove. Something else, then. He would keep prodding.

“Anyway, the problem isn’t the work,” Bjorn said with a weak smile. “So yeah, a break is nice.”

Askeladd knew he should probably keep his questions to himself, but he was compelled beyond sense; the more he learned, the less he understood, and it frustrated him. “It hasn’t always been like this, though?”

“Well, like you said. Another set of hands lightens the load.” A rueful twist of his lips. “My mother liked the work, too.”

An idle thought crossed Askeladd’s mind; he would have liked to meet this woman, if only to see if she was as strange as her son. “What happened to her?” he asked before he could stop himself. He didn’t really care, (he _didn’t)_ , but the answer would likely fill the time. His leg ached, and the wounds itched so fiercely that his need for distraction had reached desperate proportions.

Bjorn wouldn’t look at him. He wore a strange, brittle smile, his hands moving too quickly over his work. He was so preoccupied he didn’t notice when the flat of the chisel stripped a sheet of skin from his knuckles. “I got really sick,” he explained after a moment, pressing his hand over the scrapes, so as not to get blood on his only clothes. The smile had become a grimace. “She took care of me. Of course, right? Then … she got sick – and she died.” An anxious look over his shoulder, though the rest of the house was silent. “That’s why he hates me. Since it was my fault.”

As Askeladd studied his miserable host, his vague disconnected curiosity melted away, softening into pity. He felt the bizarre urge to interpose himself between Bjorn and everything else in this world that would conspire to put that look on his face, trying so desperately to be strong in the face of yawning loss. Normally the personal disclosure would have annoyed him, but well, he had asked. And it was impossible for anyone to be irritated by such an answer or its delivery. “That’s ridiculous.”

Bjorn looked up at him, blinking in surprise. “What?”

“You didn’t choose to get sick,” Askeladd said with a tight gesture. The motion of his arm jostled his wounded leg, and a shock of pain drove a hissed breath between his teeth. “And you didn’t choose to get her sick. It’s ridiculous acting as if you’re to blame.”

Bjorn rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess. You could never tell him that, though.”

“Yes, I imagine it makes him feel better to have someone to take out his failures on.”

Bjorn shrugged, looking away. “Getting clouted ain’t so bad most of the time. You almost don’t feel it anymore, if it happens enough. If you’re expecting it. You know he’ll get bored and stop after a few. It’s only really bad when he goes on and on; for hours, seems like, sometimes. Then he’s mad enough to kill me.” His matter-of-fact tone suggested that it had happened before; Askeladd wondered just how many times this besieged boy had crawled off to some hidden corner and bandaged himself up alone, dabbing at bruises and wounds, tying off linen with his teeth. Probably more than a few. The thought was so hopelessly, consumingly sad that fury took him by the heart, made the edges of his vision shimmer. He didn’t understand why this upset him so much.

“I’m sorry,” Bjorn said when the silence grew too long, and struggled to his feet. This time he couldn’t stifle the wince; pain catching up with him at last. “I’ll go get you some water.”

After Bjorn slung a pole with two buckets over his shoulder and stepped outside, Askeladd slumped against the wall, letting his head thump back, and closed his eyes. He had asked, he had wanted to know, but for once knowing brought no relief. If he chose to confide his own history, he knew implicitly that Bjorn would understand, would understand _him_ , and the thought of it was terrifying.

Despite his best efforts, Askeladd couldn’t escape the tender realization; this inexplicable person had risen from a beating and bore the pain without complaint, all to restore a treasure for someone he loved, spending far more time than necessary to make it beautiful. How rare such a thing was in this world.


	4. Chapter 4

Striding down the half-dried path to the brook, Bjorn hefted the bucket pole over his good shoulder and reflected on his stupidity. Every few paces his shoes would stick to the muck, half pulling them off his feet, making the trek twice as difficult as normal. Sunlight beat down on the back of his neck, seeped through his clothes; the last vestiges of summer, edged with a chill. Yet, it was still too cold to account for the heat in his cheeks.

He was stupid. He had thought to encourage his reticent guest into disclosure by offering some of his own, but Askeladd had said nothing, only looked at him with increasing sickened pity, and he had not been able to stand it. He didn’t know what it was about sympathy that unbalanced him so much; perhaps the implicit criticism that he was a failure at taking care of himself. The shame today was worse than ever before; it was unbearable that his guest should think him pathetic.

Though, he had no idea what Askeladd thought; the man was a confounding puzzle, who spoke so much but revealed so little, a smirk like a mask, eyes the color of water rushing beneath a solid sheath of ice. The only thing Bjorn knew for certain was that his guest was a liar. Not a petty or brutal one, not as far as he saw, anyway; there was no derision in his falsehoods, no disgust in his larks. And he wasn’t withholding about everything; he’d seemed upfront about his general circumstances, if not his purpose. Rather, his lies gave Bjorn the sense of a wounded man crouching behind a shield, watching his foe’s progress from atop its edge. There was something oddly hunted about him, in the way he prodded and scrutinized his circumstances, an edginess incongruous in a man of such deadly skill and social standing. Bjorn nursed that marrow-deep restlessness, the hope that something better awaited; strange that one who came from such privilege would know it too.

The stream where Bjorn collected daily water was deeper in the forest than most preferred to go, about a half hour south of the flat plain where Bjorn’s house squatted, but Bjorn liked the raw wilderness, where the foliage was so dense and dark one had to wade through it like a rough surf. He didn’t have to listen to himself think with the sound of life in his ears; birds calling, a stream rushing, trees rustling and creaking in the breeze. He pushed through the green and breathed in the scent of earth, letting it settle in his chest, until it was a part of him.

By now, he might have worn a path between the stream and his home, but he liked to take a different route every time, to keep his sense of direction sharp. In all the years he’d done so, he’d only gotten lost a few times, and then it had only been for a few days. The walk usually took him a fair amount of time, but before he knew it, he was staring at the familiar rushing water, reflecting diffuse light streaming down from between the rustling branches. Bjorn looked up, brushing foliage out of his face; the leaves were beginning to turn. Soon he’d be fishing them out of the stream. 

He slung one bucket into the water, hauled it out, then filled the other. None of it was taking enough time. He had fumbled for a long chore that would allow him to clear his head, but everything rushed together; an hour crammed into the space of a minute, leaving him untethered in the present. Sighing, he sank into a crouch and dipped his hand into the cool water, letting it rush between his fingers.

Tove’s question gnawed at him. He could leave this village; he probably _should_ , if he cared to think about it for more than a minute. He might even ask to follow his intriguing guest, wherever the man might choose to go; he himself had no particular inclination beyond discovery. For he had memorized his home, he knew it too well; he could walk the breadth of the forest with his eyes closed, dumb to any sense but memory and instinct, and emerge on the other side unscathed.

But the thought of leaving Tove made his throat tight, and the prospect of disappointing his mother’s shade tied his stomach to knots. Though, he could only assume she would be disappointed by his abandonment. He didn’t know how she would feel about his father now, if she would disapprove of the hatred and violence he inflicted on their son. She might have, but he could never know for sure. Things had been different when she was alive; he hadn’t realized yet how little he meant to his father, how easy it would be for the man to beat him and blame him for everything that had ever wronged him, for taking away what he believed was his.

But that didn’t matter. He had an obligation that wasn’t so easily discarded, just because circumstances were painful and lean. More than that, he had food and a roof over his head, and Tove and his work. He knew this place well enough that he didn’t have to think about it; he didn’t have to think about anything at all, living such a life. There was no reason to complain.

_In the east, there is a land of rivers and marshes, and mountains veiled by mist … the land of our ancestors. An ancient and powerful spirit lives in that earth, and it has seen and suffered much, yet still it lives on, echoing in the whisper of the silver pines, the rush of snow across the taiga. A stark place that forges those who endure._

_You and I will see it, someday._

It was the land she had come from, so distant that it became myth, both greater and more illusory than the true place. Before he had yearned to see it so desperately it haunted his dreams, but now he doubted that it would have ever lived up to the place she conjured with her words. He often told himself that it was no true loss, it would have disappointed him, and in turn diminished his mother’s stories. But some nights, when the wind cut through the cracks in the walls and the bruises ached so badly he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t help but wonder.

He stared so long into the rushing water that by the time he broke out of his reverie, the light streaming through the branches had faded to gloaming, and his knees ached from the strain of crouching on the bank. He stood slowly, groaning in pain. Suddenly, he was bone tired; it felt as if he hadn’t closed his eyes in weeks. Hoisting the pole onto his good shoulder, he stepped away from the stream and started back the way he had come.

He wondered what his mother would have made of Askeladd. He barely knew what to make of the man himself; a second opinion from one of the most trusted sources he could think of would have helped anchor his own. She might have found him funny, his asides diverting and sharp. Perhaps she would have seen what lurked behind those hunted lies, for it was beyond his own intelligence.

The sun hovered just above the horizon when he pushed beyond the edge of the forest back on the flat plain, leeching light from the sky. A few stars peeked through the deepening dark, winking like needle-holes in a blanket. It had become cold, yet the chill galvanized him, and the open expanse of the sky lifted his heart; he could draw strength from this land, too. The sky was the same anywhere.

He had just caught sight of his house in the distance when the smell of something burning shattered his reverie. Something savory was cooking, the scent of it overpowering the rest of the world, like a hand to the throat. 

Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and his gut twisted into sick knots. Rorik could have returned by now; if his absence had forced Rorik to prepare a meal for their guest, he’d never get the end of it. He ran faster, water slopping over the edges of the buckets and spilling onto his legs. Wind whipped at his cheeks, pulling tears from his eyes; it felt as if his heart would burst from his chest, bloody and reeling, and set off on its own.

He thundered down the path and through his yard, wrenching the door open with a mighty heave. As he braked, one of the buckets swung hard into his back, spilling half its contents all over his clothes. It took him a few staggered heartbeats to process the sight before him; a warmly light room, and Askeladd leaning over the firepit, stirring eagerly at a pot.

“You were gone a long time, and I got hungry,” Askeladd explained, gesturing with a spoon. But when he looked up, he paused at Bjorn’s expression and the sight of his mud-spattered clothes. “What’s wrong?” he asked, brows lifting.

Bjorn closed his eyes and shook his head, willing his sprinting heart to slow. “Nothing,” he managed. “It smells good.”

~

It took Bjorn a week of fervent preparation before he was ready to attempt his repairs. His first attempts were to refine the strength of his adhesive composite; there would be no more of this breaking nonsense, illustrative or otherwise. Resin alone was too brittle, iron too unaccommodating and ugly, not to mention inaccessible; he must create a composite that could fulfill his purpose without taking away from its beauty. 

It helped that he knew what he was doing; he repaired cracks in walls and cutlery often, as he had no opportunity to replace what broke. But in this case, he was not just going to repair, he would _improve_. It would be better than it was before it had been broken; that was the entire point of this exercise. It was important that she see it his way.

He fell into a routine. He was always collecting routines, and this one was kinder than all of the others: he would wake before the sunrise, stoke the fire and make some food, tend to the animals and rush through the sweeping before cleaning Askeladd’s wounds and changing the bandages. Even with Rorik away, it was better to keep everything running as smoothly as possible, for he could come back at any moment; he could be gone days, or weeks, before he got bored with whatever it was he did in the wilderness. In the afternoons Bjorn trained with sword and spear, applying Askeladd’s smirking advice to his deficiencies the best he could. And when everything else was finished, he spent the rest of the day working on Tove’s plate, talking with Askeladd until the hour ran late and the fires burned low.

After a week of experiments, he was ready; he finished tweaking his resin composite, which resisted shattering even by force and glowed a dark reddish amber, the iridescent shards of shell within catching in the low light. He thought it looked nice in daylight too, sparkling like a spread of coins in a riverbed. He brought it to a molten liquid by stirring it slowly, careful not to whip it into a froth.

Askeladd was watching him, arms crossed over his chest, jiggling his good leg. Though he was healing well and could walk around a little now, a week and a half of convalescence had driven him to distraction, and he refused to suffer the feeling alone. “Tell me something.”

“Hm?” Bjorn leaned down over his table, arranging the pieces of the plate until there was just enough space between them. He must keep them evenly spread, or the plate would dry crookedly, and the entire effort would be ruined.

“Do you think your father left that sword of his behind?”

“He probably took it with him,” Bjorn explained with a shrug. “And anyway, I don’t go up to his loft.”

“Not even when he’s gone?”

“Nah. He knows if anything’s out of place. Down to the dust motes. It’s just better not to bother.”

Askeladd was quiet for a long moment; he stopped shaking his leg and fixed Bjorn with a serious, searching expression, as if attempting to lift the truth from his face alone. “You’re really quite good with that spear. More than average, I would say.”

“What does average look like?” Bjorn prodded him, hoping to distract.

“They don’t fret about spear tricks, for one. But you’re devastatingly accurate – in your dominant hand, at least. You’ve obviously worked on it more than anything else.” 

Bjorn paused, taken aback by the praise; he didn’t agree, but it was nice to hear it from Askeladd. “Well, thank you.”

“Hush. My point is, I don’t understand why you need the mushrooms, if you already know what you’re doing as well as you do. If you were a hack, maybe I’d understand. But it’s obvious you know your way around that spear, better than most.”

Bjorn had been waiting for this question; it amazed him that Askeladd had waited nearly a week and a half to ask. “Listen,” he said. “You know how when you stick your hand in a fire, you don’t have to think about pulling it out? By the time you’ve registered any pain, your body’s already finished getting you out of it. You don’t have to think about flinching or jumping when something startles you; it just happens, your body does the thinking. So when you’re in the middle of a hopeless fight, you don’t want to waste the time it might have taken to puzzle out the best strategy; you need that extra space to act, you need your entire being to flinch. That’s all.”

“Hm,” Askeladd said, with chin in hand, tapping his fingers against his cheek. “You don’t think accuracy is important in that kind of situation?”

“Not as important as endurance.” Bjorn shrugged. “And I’m stronger after I’ve taken some. I hit harder. I tested it out when I first started using it.”

“You … tested it?”

Bjorn looked at him quizzically. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” He’d noticed this a few times, now; Askeladd’s surprise at the most incongruous details, things Bjorn assumed were universal. Why wouldn’t someone see how something worked, how effective it was, before relying on it when you were in trouble? It made sense; unlike Askeladd’s astonishment. “I went to the forest, away from anyone that might get in my way, took some, then afterward I looked at what I was able to wreck, what kind of trees, tried to do it again when I was clear-headed, and couldn’t. So that’s how I know.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Askeladd said.

Bjorn beamed; he liked when his speculations were sound, and that he wasn’t a complete incompetent in conveying his conclusions. Askeladd was smarter than most, therefore his approval meant more. “I thought so, too.” He craned back down over his pot and carefully poured the molten resin into a pewter pitcher; he would have to work quickly and carefully, pouring out just enough to bind the pieces without pooling on the table beneath, before the resin cooled and hardened.

As he tipped the lip of the pitcher toward the shards, a shudder ran down his arm, unsteadying his grip, and a glob of molten splashed from the edge onto the back of his hand. But he didn’t draw away, slowly easing the mixture into the tiny trenches between the pieces, careful not to pour too much. It would stick to the table if it pooled at the bottom, and then he’d have to start all over.

“Bjorn,” said Askeladd, sounding alarmed.

Bjorn didn’t look away from his progress. The shiny pieces of the shell in the resin caught in the low light from the firepit. “What is it.”

_“Bjorn.”_

Sweat broke out on his brow; the stench of burning flesh filled his nose. “Just a moment, I almost have it …”

“Stop!” Askeladd snatched his hand away, jolting the pieces as he swept aside the glob of molten resin, his fingers pressing so hard into Bjorn’s palm that it hurt. “What was that you said about pulling your hand out of a fire?” he demanded, eyes blazing.

Bjorn blinked. His thoughts tumbled awkwardly over one another, jostling against a skull stuffed with straw. The strength of Askeladd’s response unbalanced him, as did his own stunted reaction to it. “I’m sorry,” he managed after a moment. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Askeladd said, incredulous.

“Because you’re upset.”

Askeladd dropped his hand as if he’d scalded it, too. “I’m not. It’s just that burns are disgusting. And they smell terrible.”

Bjorn slowly pulled his hand back, holding it against his chest. “Right …” It took him a moment to remember the pieces, half undone and scattered across his worktable. He knew he should be annoyed that his effort had been thwarted before he barely had a chance to begin, but he couldn’t bring himself to summon the appropriate irritation; whatever his reasons, they had rendered Bjorn pain unbearable and driven him to help. How rare such a thing was in his world.

Askeladd clucked his tongue, hobbling back to his pallet; retreating once again into sarcasm. “Look at it, it’s all blistered. How could you inflict such a miserable sight on your guest? And that smell has ruined my appetite. You really ought to be more considerate.”

Bjorn knew what this was, and a smile tugged at his lips. “How could I have been so selfish.”

“Utterly disappointing. I may never recover.”

Bjorn arranged the pieces once again, shifting them around with the half-hardened resin binding each shard to another. It was warm enough inside that he still had some time before the composite dried completely and the effort was ruined. “You might,” he said. “You have a pretty good healer.”

“He’s acceptable.”

Bjorn only shook his head, trying not to let his stupid smile completely overtake his face. He knew he should probably save the repair for another evening, when his hands were steadier, and every thought didn’t stick to the edges of his concentration. He had wondered before what lurked behind those hunted lies, studying each for signs of its source. Bjorn was beginning to sense the shape of it; something vulnerable and good, something warm.


	5. Chapter 5

-9 years ago-

The boy in her garden was still breathing.

Tove had literally stumbled on him as she made the rounds through rows of herbs and flowers, her paring knife already in hand. Before the intrusion, she had smiled; they were coming in nicely this year. It would make for steady work, she thought, before tripping over the unconscious form sprawled facedown between her parsley and rosemary. The basket of herbs jolted off her arm and bounced a few paces away, spilling its contents across the sodden grass, but she didn’t notice; instead, she knelt at the boy’s side.

At first glance, she thought he was dead, until he let out a small sigh, and one of his hands twitched; she took it carefully in her own and pressed her fingers to the underside of his wrist, checking for a heartbeat. Weak, but steady. She pressed the back of her hand to the boy’s brow and frowned at the heat; he had a fever, perhaps from being outside in the rain all night.

But it was his other arm that made her gasp. It hung at a sick angle, and a jut of stark white bone poked out through the brown skin near his elbow. Nausea clamped her throat shut. Only when she rolled him to his good side did she recognize him; the boy she had treated for devastating sickness last week, and had delivered into this world nine years ago.

“Bjorn,” she said, touching his face gently.

He stirred beneath her hand; his gaze was cloudy with pain. “Help,” he croaked, and her heart broke. She guided him upright, careful to keep from jostling his broken arm, but even the smallest motion drew whimpers from him. Mentally, she sorted through likely causes for such an injury; the force required to snap a child’s arm clean in half had probably come from a fall, not an uncommon occurrence with children, especially in the independent minded, as she knew this one was.

“I tried to fix it,” he told her as she led him to a stool by the firepit, his breath coming in shallow huffs, “but – I just made it worse.”

“It’s all right,” she reassured him. “We’re going to fix it right now.”

For half a moment she hardly knew where to begin; he was coated in a layer of muck so thick it nearly obscured his features, plastering his hair to his scalp on the right side, and clumps of wet grass clung to his ratty tunic. _Wash him, then set the bone._ He had already rolled the left sleeve back halfway up his bicep, the better to see his wound, but it had twisted around into a hopeless tangle since his trek to her home. She would have to cut it off him.

But when she drew her dagger, he flinched away. “I need to take this off,” she said softly.

“I don’t have – I don’t have another one,” he said, clutching the stool with his good hand, leaning away from her.

“I have a spare that you can keep,” she said. “I will clean and mend this, also.”

After a moment, he nodded. Steadying her hand, she eased the blade along the seam of his tunic, slow as she could muster, mindful not to jostle him. She had a notoriously steady stomach – one must not only tolerate a great many disgusting sights and smells as a healer but use them diagnostically – but the sight of the boy’s mangled arm tied her gut to knots. Worse still was that he flinched whenever he felt the slightest pressure of touch, the sensation of air moving over ravaged skin.

But closer inspection revealed that it was a clean break, at least, and after setting it in a cast, there was no reason it couldn’t heal straight. It would just take a long time.

Before she hurried off to prepare the water and supplies she would need to treat him, she rummaged around the worktable nearest to them and pressed a large piece of treated willow bark into his good hand, nodding encouragingly. “Chew on that.”

“Why?”

She made herself smile; it had seldom before been so difficult. “It will help with the pain. Now keep your arm still. I need to bathe you first.”

With that, he shoved it into his mouth eagerly, chewing with abandon. He didn’t even wince at the taste.

She had never prepared a bath or treatment so fast, though there was nothing she could do about the time it took to boil water. While she bustled about, her nerves buzzing, he watched with wide, hungry eyes, as if committing the procedure to memory for his own use later.

Mindful to keep his arm dry and immobile, she helped him into a bucket and poured hot water over his head, scrubbing and rinsing with brisk, strident motions. The more quickly she could set the bone, the better – though she hoped to give the willow bark a chance to take effect. “How does it feel?” she asked him after a few minutes, when she’d rinsed away the last of the mud and clumps of grass.

He stopped chewing, his cheeks bulging, eyes wide as plates. “It’s getting better,” he said in a hush. “It doesn’t hurt as bad.”

The stirrings of relief edged her alarm. “Good.”

“How does it work?” he asked, looking up at her.

Such a question; she almost smiled. Where to even begin? “Everything is made of different pieces,” she explained, “different elements – fire and water, earth and air -- and when you combine the pieces, they produce an effect, good or bad. The pieces that make you combine with the pieces in the bark, and you experience the positive effect.” Her lips thinned. “Poisons work the same way, but produce the opposite.”

He nodded solemnly. “That makes sense.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Come, mind your step,” she said, helping him out of the bucket and swaddling him in a blanket, leaving his injured arm free. “We’re going to set this, now.”

He nodded again, resolute this time. “It doesn’t hurt as bad,” he told her, though his breath had become shallow again. “So you don’t have to think about it.”

“Of course I do. Silly child. Sit here, we’ll align the bone as quickly as possible.”

He settled on the stool; his jaw clenched tight.

“I need you to remain very still, all right?”

“All right.”

She laid out the planks that would keep the bone straight, neatly folded strips of linen and a bowl of yellowish salve. Steadied herself with a long breath; it was always their pain that was the worst. Holding him firm with one hand, she took his arm in the other and guided the bone until she felt it slot into place against the break, gritting her teeth when he whimpered and keened. But through it all, no matter how intense the agony, he never moved.

An eternity later, she was pressing his arm between the planks and securing them firmly in place with the linen. “Do you see how I’m doing this?” she asked him. “It’s very important you keep your arm still for the next two months, do you understand?”

He nodded, stifling his wince; tears shone on his cheeks. “I can do it.”

“Of course you can,” she said. “You’ve been so good through this, Bjorn. I’ve treated grown men who thrash around like babies and howl loud enough to wake the dead.”

His lips curved up, despite himself. He swiped at his face with the back of his good hand. “You’re lying.”

“I am not! Rotten child.” But she squeezed his shoulder encouragingly and passed him a horn of hot mead. “Drink.”

“What does this do?”

“It’s just mead.” She moved behind him, hooking her foot around the leg of her own stool and dragging it around, settling herself. “I’ll treat the gash on your elbow, and then you will go to sleep.”

He shook his head, panic in his eyes. “I need to go back home soon.”

“You will rest before you go,” she said firmly.

“But –”

“It’s not up for debate. That is your healer's prerogative. Now, I need you to be still again.” 

He fell silent, the corner of his mouth pulling down into a heartbreaking frown. His distress over the subject seemed incongruous, especially compared to his grit in the face of actual pain. Focusing on the wound, she smeared it with the salve, twitching the stringent scent of it out of her nose. It would help with the pain and bind the flesh faster than if she left it bare. 

Taking a breath, she began:

_“Phol and Wotan rode through the forest.  
There the steed of Baldr sprained his leg.  
That was charmed by Sinthgut, and her sister Sunna;  
That was charmed by Freyja, and her sister Volla;  
That was charmed by Wotan, as he well could:  
So bone ailments as blood ailments  
as limb ailments:  
bone to bone, blood to blood  
limb to limb fuse as by glue.” _

“Who is Wotan?” Bjorn asked; not too scared or in too much pain to wonder.

“It’s just another name for Oðinn.”

His head tilted. “Where do they call him that?”

“In a land south and east from here.”

“Why not just call him Oðinn too?”

“They speak a different language than we do. But they keep the same gods.” She smiled at his inquisitiveness. “And the charm must be spoken as it was written, otherwise it won’t work.”

“It’s magic?” Bjorn asked in a hush.

“Of a sort … now, be still. I must finish binding it.”

As she tied the last of the linin in place, he was quiet, chewing on his lip; it seemed he was so consumed by interest he could no longer feel any pain at all. “Do you know another one?”

“Of course, I know many.” She thought for a moment, sifting through her memory, something that might encourage through darkness, seizing at last on one of the newer verses she remembered:

_“The sun turns black, the earth sinks below the sea;  
no bright star now shines from the heavens;  
flames leap the length of the World Tree;  
fire strikes against the very sky._

_“But she sees the earth rising again  
out of the waters, green once more;  
an eagle flies over rushing waterfalls,  
hunting for fish from the craggy heights.” _

“How do you remember so many verses?” Bjorn asked, looking up at her.

Tove steadied herself, summoning the shape of the memory, its jagged outline, if not its content. “I traveled with a skald for a long time.”

“Before you came here?”

“Yes.” 

“Did he ever write anything himself?”

Tove measured her answer. “She was mostly interested in the verses of other skalds, especially the older ones, so we wandered in search of them. Some that we found were over a century old … passed down through generations by skalds like her, interested in preservation. They are only alive when spoken or read, woven through the years, in hundreds of different voices.”

Bjorn’s eyes were wide. “They were that old?”

“They were. And from every land you can imagine. She had a prodigious memory. She only had to hear a verse once and it would be indelibly imprinted on her mind, nothing could shake it loose.” A distant smile. “Not even when I would misremember on purpose.”

“So your memory is that good, too.”

“Not at good as hers was, unfortunately. But well enough for my purposes.”

He was quiet a moment, tugging at a loose thread in his trousers. “I didn’t know there were women skalds.”

“Of course there are,” said Tove. “Why shouldn’t there be?”

“I dunno. I just never heard one before.”

“Well, perhaps there aren’t that many. But they’re out there.”

“What happened to your friend?”

Tove shoved the memory away, the sound when the blade had found its mark. “She … was killed.”

Bjorn reached around awkwardly to pat her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said gravely.

“Oh, dear one,” she sighed, pulling away. “It was a very long time ago.” And it had been, over a decade now, yet in many ways, it was as if it had only just happened, and she faced that first night alone once more.

Enough time had passed; his breath had calmed, well enough that he might be able to answer her questions, now. “Will you tell me how this happened, Bjorn?” she asked gently.

He was quiet for a long time; beneath her hands, his shoulders began to shake. “She died,” he whispered.

A chill prickled on the back of her neck; she knew instantly who he meant. “Vilja is dead?”

After a moment Bjorn nodded, curling in on himself, cradling his broken arm. “And … he got angry.”

For a long, sick moment, she grappled with understanding. _“Rorik_ did this?”

Bjorn nodded again.

 _The bone had been snapped clean through!_ she thought, fury edging her nerves, mingling with gnawing grief. Those bruises she had seen had not been from Bjorn’s attempt at setting the bone, but rather his father’s fingers, crushing, breaking – She let out a shaky breath, attempting to steady herself; it would not do for him to see her so upset.

“I have to go back,” he whispered, shivering. “She wouldn’t want me to leave him alone for too long.”

“She would want you to rest,” Tove told him, guiding him across the room to a pallet by the firepit. “She … listen; I need to take some curatives to the next village over, and when I return, we will go to your home together, all right?”

After a moment, he nodded, though her entreaty did nothing to blunt the intensity of his frown. She helped him down, immobilizing his arm with a pillow and tucking the blankets tightly around his shoulders. “I won’t be long,” she said.

“All right.”

She waited until certain he was asleep, pouring out the dirty bathwater and cleaning the rest of her supplies, storing them in haphazard places. She forgot them as soon as she had moved on. Only when she heard his sleep-slowed breathing did she strap the sheath to her side, slinging a cloak over her shoulders; always she left the right arm free, a habit ingrained from darker days.

The sun had barely risen, hovering at the curve of the horizon, golden light stretching like fingers across the land. The first vestiges of winter edged the air, a chill that set her jaw, made her sharp. The hem of her cloak snapped about her heels, damp with dew. Her thoughts clashed as she stormed up the hills and across the fields, intent on a house she knew well, had seen much in the last month, as the fever had raged through it. Who could have imagined such an errand now.

 _You swore you never would again_ , said that beloved voice, as her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger. _You swore on your blood._ But the force required to snap a child’s arm like a dry twig – the bottomless, yawning cruelty necessary to do so to your own child – her mind raced. She couldn’t force him to stay his hand, but she could at least protect Bjorn’s life, such as it was. Long enough for him to leave one day.

She hauled open the front door without bothering to knock, surging across the room and up the stairs to the loft. Thought light outside, up here everything was slung in shadow; she could only vaguely see the massive shape hunched by the bed.

“What are you doing here?” Rorik slurred thickly, attended by empty bowls and bottles. He hadn’t even bothered to attend his wife’s corpse; she lay where she had expired, wasted away to nothing. “Go away ... you’re too late …”

Tove crossed the room in three steps and backhanded Rorik across the face so hard his neck cracked when his head whipped to the side. Her knuckles stung from the impact. “If you kill that boy,” she hissed, “I will kill you.”

The blade was out and under his chin before he could hobble to his feet. “Do you think you can pass off the battered corpse of your child as some kind of unfortunate accident to the jarl? Let me put to rest such preposterous notions right now.”

Dull malevolence shone in his narrowed eyes; too drunk to retaliate, but not too drunk to hate. “D’you think you can pass off mine the same way?”

“The lawspeaker will make an exception for me, accident or no. As will he look on my death with suspicion.” She leaned closer, pressing the point of the blade hard enough into his neck to break skin. “Do you understand me, coward? You won’t escape consequences, but I will.”

She spoke with the weight of _seiðr_ , its terrible tone, cruel as a rusted blade. “Know this: If I do not see Bjorn every week, I will assume you killed him, and you will die. If he is in any way permanently damaged, I will assume you are responsible, and you will die. If you run, I will find you, and you will die. I have done this before, and will do so again if you give me the smallest excuse. On my blood, by my hand, and the gods’.”

“Put the blade away, witch,” he muttered. “I hear you.”

She held the point of the blade to his throat for a moment longer, so he would understand just how small his life was, and how coldly she could dispatch him to _Níðh_ _ǫ_ _ggr._ Only when she saw blood and the flash of fear in his eyes did she stow her blade. Sniffing, she swept past him and to the other side of the bed, taking one of Vilja’s waxen hands in her own, so brittle and birdlike. It had been such a hard way to die.

“What are you doing?” Rorik said, clutching his throat and glaring up at her from under a shaggy mop of black hair.

Disgust curled Tove’s lip. _“We’re_ going to attend your wife, since you failed to do so on your own. You will start by building the pyre, since you couldn’t even burn the straw of her bed.” She let out a hard breath. “I will prepare her.”

Rorik’s mouth twitched, but he said no more. Lumbering to his feet, he lurched across the loft and downstairs; Tove heard him catch the doorway, lingering for a long moment, before he stumped unevenly outside.

~

They burned her that evening.

Tove had readied her for the afterlife as best she knew, as she had done a thousand times before, though it has rarely been so difficult. She bathed clammy flesh and dressed her in a linen shift and vibrant red and blue wool overtunic, held in place at the shoulders by broaches patterned with owls. She fastened onto her woven belt the chains with keys and sewing tools and a knife, and oiled and braided her long auburn hair. She stowed a felted purse in one of the pockets of her dress, its border stitched with a pattern of vines and curling tendrils, golden thread against green. They had so little else to send with her.

By the time Tove finished her preparations and returned from her home with Bjorn in tow, Rorik had completed the pyre at the edge of their land and cleared the straw out of their bed to be burned. Tove gathered the body in her arms and bore her outside, arranging her carefully atop the pyre, straightening the dress. She had been a tall woman, yet in death she was horribly diminished, light as a bundle of sticks. There remained no trace of laughter or warmth on that lovely face; her cheeks were hollowed, eyes already sunken. Any halfway respectful husband would not have waited so long to attend her, she thought bitterly, before stepping down from the pyre.

They had no means to burn with her, no horse or ship, not even the smallest handcart. Rorik brought out the sickliest and most stunted of their sheep; Tove pressed her lips together and held it in place while Rorik fumbled with the blade, his shaking hand botching his strike at the last moment. The creature bleated in agony and thrashed feebly in her arms while he cursed and worked the blade across its throat. Such a miserable sacrifice boded ill, but she said nothing as the last of its blood spilled into the dirt, and it fell still and silent. She let out a slow breath and stood with it in her arms, arranging its body carefully at the foot of the pyre.

As Rorik advanced with the lit torch and dipped it into the kindling, he kept his gaze fixed toward nothingness; the flames reflected in his dull and glassy eyes, flickering not with grief but sullen discontent. He didn’t even wait for it to catch properly before turning on his heel and striding back down the long path to his house, disappearing into the darkness within. Again, Tove said nothing, though fury chewed her heart to splinters. He was stubbornly determined to be as insufficient a partner and father as possible. Fuming, she turned to the boy at her side, cobbling together some explanation that would soothe this latest hurt.

She saw with a jolt that Bjorn’s pitted stare was fixed on the body, blackening on the pyre.

She took him firmly by the shoulder. “Look at the flames,” she told him, guiding his gaze above. “The higher they rise, the higher your mother will ascend in the court of her patron god. Perhaps she will be taken to _Helgafjell,_ to linger in the halls of the holy mountain. Only the best are brought to that place, those who bear out their lives in service to love.”

He nodded minutely. “That makes sense,” he said in a small, strangled voice.

~

As promised, she saw him exactly one week later. She heard him before she saw him, scuffing down the path through her garden, hesitating on the threshold before knocking on the doorway.

“Come in,” she called, turning to look over her shoulder.

Still, Bjorn hesitated. His injured arm was held in place by the sling she had made for him; he had somehow kept the linen immaculately clean over the course of the week. “What are you making?” he wondered, craning closer. She saw with a start that his cheek was mottled black and blue.

It was as if that beast was staring her in the face, defiant and cruel, knowingly inflicting exactly as much pain as he could get away with, and no more. _Not permanent,_ she thought _,_ as if that could make it better. But she made herself smile.

“Come here,” she said, beckoning to him. “I’ll show you.” 


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Askeladd woke to the sound of low voices in the next room, pitched like knives, each retort cutting at the other. He lurched upright, his stomach twisting as he recognized the lower tones; after nearly a week away, Rorik had apparently returned in the middle of the night. Normally Askeladd’s ears were more sensitive; he should have been able to isolate even the lightest steps on sod. It was unnerving that such a huge man should circumvent this.

“I’m going to Tove’s,” he heard Bjorn say, increasing in volume as he approached, his voice stiff. “I have work to do.”

“Don’t call playing with flowers work,” Rorik snapped.

“I’m going to Tove’s to play with flowers."

Askeladd let out a long breath through his nose. The sound of a heavy blow echoed through the little house, and Rorik snarled in an undertone: “I told you to stop fucking looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” 

Another blow, this one worse than the last; it sounded as if Rorik had knocked Bjorn completely off his feet. Clearly Rorik’s jaunt around the countryside had done little to improve his temperament.

“Don’t spend the whole day fucking around there. You have actual work to do here.”

Askeladd could practically hear Bjorn’s jaw clenching from here, grinding his teeth as he held the truth close to his chest. And it was so familiar; Askeladd had forged the same skill in similar circumstances. “Yes, father.”

A few moments later, Bjorn stormed into the main room, his cheek reddening and expression murderous, but it softened when he caught sight of Askeladd struggling gamely with his boots. “Do you think you can manage walking around a little today?” he asked quietly, rummaging through a box by the fire before producing two loaves of bread and dried pieces of herring, stowing them carefully in a smaller handbasket padded with linen. “I think it’s been long enough that you could try, if you wanted.”

“Of course,” Askeladd said, clambering stiffly to his feet and groping for his swordbelt, buckling it haphazardly. _Don’t leave me alone with that man, I may draw my blade._ Everyone knew how such an insult was repaid by law. As he stood, he braced himself against the wooden beams of the wall, stifling a wince. His legs were unsteady and weak, as if he stood atop a reeling deck of a ship tossed by a storm, creaking in protest. The wound on his thigh ached terribly, especially when he put weight on it for longer than a few seconds, but the thought of moving around under his own power was too tantalizing to resist, as was the prospect of seeing Bjorn in his element, elbow deep in some salve, working as Tove directed.

He was also curious about this mentor; he didn’t remember much of her the first time they had met, as he’d slipped into a mild delirium, but he had no such impediment now. You could tell a lot about a person based on those they choose to associate with, who followed them and why. You’d know what you’re dealing with if a dog trusted them on sight.

After pulling down his axe from a hook by the door and fastening it to his belt, Bjorn stowed the repaired plate in the basket before pushing out into the brisk air, Askeladd hobbling at his heels.

“Do you need a walking stick?” Bjorn asked carefully, before they’d taken even ten paces. “Since this is your first time out.”

“Of course not,” Askeladd said with an airy wave. “I still know how to walk.”

“If you say so. I’ll take one for myself then.”

“Uh huh. You can’t make me take it.”

“I just told you I’m taking it for myself. Your lack of foresight isn’t my problem.” He clucked his tongue. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“How disappointing,” Askeladd leered, and that did it; a little grin curved Bjorn’s mouth, a seed of something better on a sunnier day.

A cover of darkness stretched over the sky, and a hard wind bore down on the plain, buffeting the tall grass at his side, brushing his elbows. He hurried down the path Bjorn had worn between their homes, skidding a little as he slid down the hill. Everything smelled like dirt and dew, comforting in a way he had never noticed before, familiar and new. By his estimation, sunrise was an hour off; the sky was the color of an old bruise, drawing color from the blackness above, pooling at the curve of the horizon.

He lasted about five minutes before his leg ached so terribly, he couldn’t take another step without displacing some of his weight. Without looking at him, Bjorn held out the stick, and Askeladd snatched it away; somehow, Bjorn’s carefully averted eyes were more annoying than any teasing remark.

“You don’t have to be smug,” Askeladd said peevishly.

“How do you get smug? I didn’t say a word or move my face whatsoever.”

 _“That’s_ smug.” He clutched his leg with one hand, fingers digging into his thigh, willing his panic to quiet. “Will it always be like this?” he said after a long moment.

“Nah,” Bjorn reassured him. “There’s a man in a village half a day south, his leg was actually cut open during a raid, mid-thigh to just above his knee – but Tove stitched him back together and treated it with some of the same stuff I’ve been using on you, and he runs same as before, fights the same. Says it only ever hurts a little, every once in a while. When the weather’s bad, or something. Most of the time he doesn’t notice.”

“He told you this?”

“Well, sure. I had asked. I wanted to know how much you can restore. Turns out quite a bit, if you know what you’re doing.”

“He could have been exaggerating.”

“That’s true,” Bjorn said, frowning. As he was such an inveterate liar, Askeladd was pleased with the honest appraisal. “Well, I’ve seen him fight the same, at least. So, he could do it even if it hurt.” His lips twisted in slight annoyance. “That is, _if_ he was exaggerating.”

“It’s not really that unlikely. People lie all the time.”

“But I was asking him about his treatment; it was in his best interest to give it to me straight.”

Askeladd looked away, watching the tall grass flatten under another gust of wind. “People don’t always do what’s in their best interest.”

Bjorn hmmed. “That’s true.”

“Like you, for instance,” Askeladd said, intentionally pestering. “It’s not in your best interest to snap at your father.”

Bjorn snorted. “Nope.”

“You don’t have to give him such a rotten look while you’re at it, though.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It doesn’t matter what kind of look I give him, or what I say. Might as well get some satisfaction out of it.” Bjorn’s frown deepened, turned sour. “He doesn’t like to see my mother’s face hating him. Talking back. It’s not like I could get him to lay off by being quiet and accommodating. So I'll do as I please.”

“I’m surprised he lets you keep your work at home, considering.”

“Who knows why. He thinks it’s crap,” Bjorn muttered, kicking a rock out of the path. “Getting into everything, ruining whatever he puts his stupid hand on. Maybe I’ll finally get lucky and he’ll accidentally poison himself.”

Askeladd gaped at him. “You have poisons there?”

Bjorn shrugged. “Well, sure. Poisonous plants, specifically. Some of them you need to make tinctures and salves for wounds. That’s what I was doing last night.”

“How does that work?”

Bjorn’s expression brightened, as if he were unaccustomed to illuminating things that mattered to him. Askeladd guessed Tove was the one who usually did the explaining. “Well, first you have to grind it into paste with a mortar and pestle, but you can’t lay into it too much or –”

“No, I meant why does mixing turn a poisonous plant into something safe.”

Bjorn hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, exactly. But the result is different than what the ingredients could only ever be alone; it’s something better, more useful, when you blend it with something else, something that balances it, calms the worst qualities and enhances the best.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Okay, let’s see … Last night I was working with some hemlock – alone it’ll kill you in a few hours, and there’s no way to reverse it – but after I finish working with it I have a salve I can use to treat coughs, or a tincture to calm yourself down when your mind is racing. You just have to make sure you work with gloves, though, so it doesn’t touch your skin – it can be really potent. But yeah, the way the pieces interact and combine, it changes them for the better.” His lips twisted. “Unless you were actually _trying_ to make poison. Blends can be more effective that way, too.”

Askeladd swallowed. Relief flooded him; despite its allure, he hadn’t succumbed to his curiosity and sifted through Bjorn’s worktable while his host was asleep, judging all of it for himself. He had no idea what was poisonous and what was safe.

Bjorn noticed his expression. “I didn’t leave it anywhere you could have found it, by the way,” he said with a sly little grin.

“I wasn’t looking,” Askeladd retorted, irritated; his motives were rarely so quickly identified, let alone identified at all. “How did you learn about this?” It was well above his capacity.

“Tove, of course,” said Bjorn. His brow furrowed as he considered. “What do you look so concerned for, anyway? It’s one of the first things she taught me about.”

“Probably smart.”

“Yeah. It’s easy to mistake it for other things. The roots look like parsnips, for instance. And the leaves look like parsley.”

“But you can tell the difference?”

Bjorn nodded. “Hemlock’ll have purplish spots on the stem. Now you know the difference, too,” he said, grinning again.

By the time Askeladd caught sight of a hut in the distance, at the bottom of a gentle incline, the sun peeked over the hazy horizon, spilling golden light over the dewy grass, and the fog began to fade. When the mist cleared, he knew that would be uncommonly sunny, the crisp sort of daylight only possible after harvest, when the world braced for winter.

He expected they would have to wait a little while until Tove woke, considering how early they’d started out, but after peering around the corner into her garden, they saw her moving through the rows, a basket slung on her arm, paring knife in hand.

“Oh, Bjorn,” she said when she noticed them, pushing back a strand of hair that had pulled loose from her braid. “And Askeladd. I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I haven’t even started preparing yet.”

“For?”

“For ... the _blót?”_

Bjorn blinked before rubbing his brow. “Fuck, that’s today …”

“You forgot about it?” She gaped at him. _“You?”_

“Yes, me. Honestly,” he said. “I’m here, so no harm done.”

“I suppose not.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “Go pick the offering, then. No sense in waiting around.” When Bjorn heaved a dramatic sigh and tromped off toward the byre attached to her home, she turned to Askeladd. “Would you help me prepare? Or is your leg paining you too much?”

“I’ll help,” he said easily, though his leg did, in fact, hurt. “I owe you, after all.”

“That’s not how it works here,” Tove said firmly, and Askeladd almost smiled; the refusal to tally every favor might inspire one to give back more freely, without the sting of obligation harrying them along. It was kind, yet shrewd, and up to the recipient which was more of a consideration to the giver.

 _Shrewd_ , he decided, watching her _. Definitely shrewd_.

Before they commenced preparations in earnest, he propped up his sword against the front door of Tove’s hut, slotted neatly beside Bjorn’s axe; Tove would not allow anything but the blade of her dagger in the grove, as it had been blessed for her purposes. By the time he’d settled his belongings she’d finished in the garden. Askeladd watched her bustle about the room with vague interest, wondering at the purpose of each vial and herb she pulled down from her shelves; in all he’d seen of the world, no two rituals were alike.

Bjorn was waiting for them at the edge of the grove, a large pig at his side. It was a handsome animal, bright eyed and well made, yet apparently so cowed that it followed Bjorn’s lead without a rope around its neck. He lay a hand atop its head, patting gently every few moments.

In the heart of the grove was an altar made of ash and oak and elm, adorned with animal bones artfully arrayed, splayed ribcages threaded with red-leafed vines and branches. The slash of color amidst a world of green and grey made the bones appear as if a heart raced beneath it, blood surging within. Perhaps it had been incongruous amid its surroundings when it was first built, but by now the forest had claimed the altar for its own, enveloping it in foliage; the jagged top was shrouded by a thick cover of rustling leaves, red and orange and gold, and moss grew at the base, staining the wooden frame. From above their heads, Askeladd heard the call of a crow.

Tove strode into the center of the grove and laid out her instruments at the base of the altar – flint and stone, a bowl adorned with a delicate twining pattern around the rim, a leaf-shaped dagger etched with runes, its hilt wrapped in worn red leather. Askeladd followed close behind, arranging himself to the left of the altar, as was custom. A part of him yearned for the weight of his sword on his hip, and being without left him feeling exposed, unacceptably vulnerable, though there was no reason to be anxious; he wasn’t in active danger, or surrounded by people who wanted to kill him.

Bjorn brought up the rear, the pig trundling along beside him, trusting, unthinking. Clearly it was unaware of what waited for it in the heart of that grove, or else it might have struggled against such a fate. Carefully, so as not to make it panic, Bjorn dropped to his knees at its side and ran a hand down its back before draping his arm over the shoulder, murmuring soft encouragement, too quiet for Askeladd to make out. Even then, it didn’t balk; not even the smell of old blood and bones on the alter elicited panic. Bjorn must have spent a lot of time with these animals, for them to trust him despite their better instincts; as for Askeladd, there was nothing that could keep him for long if his instincts screamed at him to fight or run.

“Do you have him, Bjorn?”

Bjorn’s arm tightened slightly around the pig’s neck; only then did it seem to understand something was wrong. “I got him.”

Neither of them gave a command, yet both moved in perfect unison; Bjorn’s arm locked tight around the pig’s neck, his other forcing its head up by the chin, and drove it into the ground – just as Tove drew the blade, flipped into a reverse, and cut out its throat in a motion so brutally fast that a silver blur remained in his sight long after she’d sheathed the blade. The pig made no sound; only a heartbeat passed before its knees buckled, twitching feebly as blood pumped out of the slash in its throat. Yet not a drop was wasted; in her other hand, Tove held the delicate bowl to the dying creature’s neck, murmuring gentle entreaties as it breathed its last. Bjorn’s hand remained atop his head the entire time.

It was over in seconds. The flow of blood became sluggish, pulsing into the bowl by slower intervals each time, and the creature ceased its twitching and went limp in Bjorn’s arms. Askeladd stared, not at the sacrifice but Tove, unable to stop thinking about the way the blade had flashed in her hand, quick as the strike of a snake, a grip both loose and solid, won by decades of practice. No simple herbalist and healer was she, Askeladd realized, frowning. Deadly skill had been imprinted onto those hands, stronger than memory, accurate and well used.

As Bjorn stepped away and knelt next to Askeladd, Tove took the pig in her arms and laid it at the foot of the alter, arranging it on its side and tucking its legs beneath its body, so that it could only have been sleeping, but for the neat slash at its throat. The dagger flashed in her hand, and as she began to chat, she cut a long wound from the pig’s neck to the groin.

The words washed over him like a wave. “What language is she speaking?” Askeladd hissed.

Bjorn just shook his head.

Askeladd gaped at his host; he had expected Bjorn’s reaction to be wry or patient, something that indicated he was humoring his mentor – hoping, perhaps, that another would share his disdain – but Bjorn’s eyes were closed, and his brow furrowed in concentration; fervently listening to Tove as she appealed to Oðinn in some unknown tongue, as though it matched his own entreaties. _A true believer,_ Askeladd thought with some surprise; he was so practical about everything else.

 _Nearly everything else_ , Askeladd corrected himself, remembering the beach.

They said that Oðinn was a master of many disciplines, as fearsome with magic as he was with a spear; that he tore out his eye and hung from the World Tree for nine days, purchasing with his suffering wisdom and understanding of the runes. They believed he was the font of verse, the center on which all threads of insight converged, inspiration embodied; and Askeladd thought it interesting that their battle god should prize knowing above all else, and that his prowess in one skill reinforced the others. Perhaps Bjorn’s devotion was not so strange, in that light. A healer or a runesmith; both create.

As she chanted, her voice lifting and falling like some savage music, a gust of wind swept through the grove, bending the rustling trees, their trunks creaking from the strain. _It was windy before she started_ , Askeladd thought, irritated. _This doesn’t mean anything._ When she bathed the altar in the pig’s blood, when she flicked a bit on their upturned faces, her chant continued and the wind increased, pulling insistently at the tops of trees, as it desperate to yank them free.

The ritual was only a little like the one they practiced in his holdfast; there were always more people, so more animals were slain, partly to account for their larger supplication to the gods, partly to provide for the feast afterward. It always turned into a raucous party that went long into the night and well into the next morning, as his family and their retainers celebrated the bounty of the harvest, a fruitful summer of plunder, and the treasure of good friends. He’d always hated it, but he didn’t hate this as much as he should. Here it was quiet, more intimate, with the solemnity that such an entreaty required. It almost didn’t matter that no one was listening.

“Bjorn,” called Tove. Silently, Bjorn rose to his feet and drew his own dagger before leaning over the pig’s corpse. The blade was less comfortable in his hands, but accurate enough; he drew out each of the creature’s organs, setting them aside on special plates at each leg of the altar. Tove struck the flint until the kindling beneath caught aflame, consuming everything; liver and lung, stomach and intestine. Bjorn reached inside one last time – 

It happened without warning. They drew back in one motion as something wet tumbled to the ground, landing with a sickening squelch. Tove’s gasp rent the silence like a blade. She would have stumbled completely had Bjorn’s hand not shot out to steady her, clenching tight on her shoulder, knuckles white. They stared at the blackened organ, oozing blood the consistency of tar, as if the half-rotted lump of flesh glistening on the grass had uttered a terrible curse.

“It looked healthy,” Bjorn whispered frantically. “I was careful, I –”

“Hush,” Tove said, more comfort than admonishment, and Askeladd understood; he blamed himself for the omen. _Of course he does_ , Askeladd thought, irritated. This wouldn’t be the first disaster he incorrectly attributed to himself; he’d barely known Bjorn a fortnight and already there was no doubt. “Bring it here.” She set the pig’s ruined heart at the plate in the center of the altar, striking the flint with increasingly desperate motions until it finally caught. But burning it brought no relief; an acrid smoke filled the grove, bringing bitter tears to Askeladd’s eyes.

“We won’t be able to eat this one,” Tove said as she extinguished the last ashes of their sacrifice, her frown etched deeply in her features. “I don’t know how much corruption there is, or where it’s spread.”

Bjorn nodded, still watching plate where the desiccated organ had lain. “Right.”

“Come, we have work to do.” Without another word, she gathered her instruments in her arms and turned on her heel, never looking back. Perhaps she had decided not to let this linger in her thoughts, though Askeladd could see the preoccupied crease etched between her brows.

“That was a clean cut,” Askeladd said as he fell into step beside her, for want of something to say. _For the most part_. “They make more of a mess in my holdfast. Viscera everywhere, clothes ruined. Most of the time they bungle the cut, so the sacrifice dies hard.” _She didn’t even get blood on her hands_ , he thought, his wariness increasing. Just the pads of her thumb and two fingers, only what she had needed for the ritual, and no more.

“Any man can make a mess of killing,” she agreed, watching Bjorn sling the pig carcass over his shoulder and haul it out of the grove. “Skill can make death fast … but instant dispatch demands mastery. You owe it that consideration, for what you take from it.”

Askeladd’s thoughts drifted to his father, writhing on the shaking blade that affixed him to the bed, blood bubbling between his gritted teeth as he gasped: _why?_ Askeladd had given the bastard exactly the consideration he was owed; another minute of agony, unable to cry out, and the pain of betrayal. “You think highly of your skills,” he managed, so she wouldn’t notice his preoccupation.

The barb missed its mark; her expression didn’t flicker. “They rarely fail me. But there is always more to learn.”

The three of them stepped out of the shaded grove and back into the crisp autumn sunlight, making for Tove’s hut half the field away. Despite the pain in his leg, Askeladd took a brisk pace; he was eager to put that blót and the unsettling grove behind him. He wouldn’t have to deal with this crap for another few months, at least. Maybe by then he’d have come up with a socially acceptable way to skip it.

When they reached Tove’s hut, Bjorn hefted the carcass off his shoulders and dropped it with a graceless thud in the garden behind her home. Rather than duck back inside, though, Tove watched the scene with a thoughtful frown, tapping her chin. “Would you like to practice your stitchwork?” she asked. “Since we have something to work with that won’t object to mistakes.”

“Have I been making many mistakes lately?” Bjorn asked innocently.

“Hush.”

Bjorn looked up at him. “Do you want to see for yourself, or is it too gross?” he said with a rotten little smirk, before turning back to Tove. “I already told him about it.”

“Did you?” Tove said.

“You know, now that I think about it some more, I’m pretty sure you were exaggerating how disgusting it is,” Askeladd put in. “Since I can’t take your word for it, I suppose I’ll have to.”

Tove’s lips twitched against a grin. “Do you have a kit, or do you need to use mine?”

“I have my own, of course,” Bjorn said, incredulous. “I always have it on me.”

“Well, who knows. You forgot about the _blót_ ,” she said with an equitable shrug. “A bone needle could easily slip past your attention, it being so much smaller than a ritual.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I use a needle more than a ritual; I’d have more cause to remember.”

“Hm.”

“How long are you going to give me trouble over this, anyway?”

“Forever. Get to work.”

So he did. As he knelt before the corpse and threaded the bone needle with catgut, a strange expression settled on his features. The wound Tove had carved into the pig’s belly to remove its organs gaped from under his arm, dark and unsettling, but he made no note of it, nor did he hesitate piercing the pig's flesh and tying together the base of the stitch. His brow was furrowed, his hands moving so quickly over such delicate work, that Askeladd almost couldn’t keep track of his progress. A lock of hair fell into his face, but he didn't push it away; in fact, he hardly seemed to notice, which inexplicably frustrated Askeladd. He fixated on the detail, marveling at a concentration so complete physical annoyances didn't even register. Barely any time seemed to pass at all before he’d pulled the last stitch tight, slicing off the excess catgut and tying it together with a knot too small to see. “How’s that?” he asked.

“Hm … I don’t like that stitch,” Tove said imperiously, crossing her arms. “Would you give your patient such an unsightly scar?”

 _What a rotten old woman!_ Askeladd thought, barely able to contain his delight. She knelt and carved another long, jagged gash above the pig’s ribcage, her blade glinting in the daylight. "Do it again."

Bjorn shot her a dirty look but kept the rest of his retort to himself. He bent over the pig’s corpse again, the bone needle poised between his fingers. Askeladd couldn’t look away, bombarded with an excess to watch; his dark eyes narrowed in extreme focus, the practiced motions of his hands, the ease with which that needle perched between his fingers. Askeladd didn’t know much about the particulars of this profession, but from his vantage point the stitches were minuscule, immaculate, and perfectly spaced. He realized with some satisfaction that Tove was showing off, for what is a teacher’s greatest pride but their student’s skill?

“Now switch hands,” she called when Bjorn had closed nearly half the wound. The command seemed to barely penetrate his concentration, but with a single, smooth motion he obeyed.

“What’s the point of that?” Askeladd wondered. It seemed at first to cross into needless showiness.

“The point is to have fewer limits,” she said. “Who can say what will happen to your dominant hand in your lifetime? Better to learn now in preparation, than later in desperate need.”

He couldn’t argue with that logic. “Fair enough.” Bjorn’s earlier fixation with ambidextrous spear tricks now seemed less a useless coddling of pride, and more an extension of these truer skills, so important, more precious than anything else he could do.

“Look at his hands,” Tove said, as if Askeladd hadn’t already been transfixed. “They don’t twitch or shake.”

Askeladd drew back in surprise. “Do yours?”

“Of course. Mostly everyone’s do.” She extended her hand to demonstrate, and he saw that she had been right; there was an almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers.

“Hold out yours, let’s see. Yes, there it is,” she said, when she caught sight of a tremble in his own. “It’s normal; your heartbeat will tell in the smallest ways, down to the slightest flicker of an eyelid. True stillness indicates bloodlessness or a lack of a heartbeat, yet he is obviously in possession of both. It doesn’t matter what’s happening around him, or that this is a complex task made all the more so by pressure; put a needle in his hand and it steadies completely. Somehow, it was that way before he even he knew what he was doing. It infuriates me,” she said, beaming with pride. “I’m monstrously jealous.”

“Prodigies really are terrible things,” Askeladd said, commiserating; he was one himself, though at a far lesser skill. 

“Truly.”

When Bjorn had finished, he stowed the needle back in his satchel and rolled to his feet, brushing wet grass from his knees. He watched expectantly as Tove inspected his work, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s much better,” Tove said, prodding the wounds with her finger, testing the strength and position of the stitch.

Bjorn’s gaped at her, his incredulity practically radiating like heat. “They’re exactly the same as the first stitches, the ones you _didn’t_ like.”

“Hm, that’s so. Hold out your hand.”

Bjorn sighed impatiently, clearly accustomed to this exercise. “Are you still going on about this?” he groused. But he obeyed, extending his hand palm facing downward. And Askeladd saw that she had been right; it was still and steady as stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry this one took me forever to write -- been dealing with various health issues that has made writing slow going, but they seem to be getting better now. thank you so much to everyone who has been reading, commenting, bookmarking, kudo'ing, etc <33333


	7. Chapter 7

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open windows, and every few moments a slight breeze would whisper through the room, enough to bring the scent of the sea inside. It mingled with the contents of Tove’s shelves, itself a prodigious contraption that encircled the entirety of her home from floor to ceiling. Each positively overflowed with more vials, bowls, tinctures, and runesticks than Askeladd thought was possible to keep in one place, perched precariously on their spots in the shelf, seemingly a breath away from clattering to the floor. And in its center, like a spider astride a dew-dappled web, were Tove and Bjorn, and their hands never stilled.

They had spent the rest of the morning disposing of the sacrifice. Its meat and muscle were useless – there was no telling how deeply the rot had permeated the rest of the creature – so they skinned it and separated fat and flesh from tendon and bone; those, at least, could be safely used for some things. Afterward they built a small pyre for what was left of poor creature and sent it off as they might have a peasant. Askeladd watched the body crackling on the pyre; he didn’t understand how such a corrupted heart could have beat within its chest, with nothing to show outside for such an affliction. It acted like any other pig – perhaps more docile than he was used to, but that shouldn’t account for the degree of rot that had riddled the heart with holes.

After they had returned inside, Tove dispatched him to a cozy corner of the hut and given him an easy task, separating leaves from stems. He normally wouldn’t have offered, but the atmosphere moved him; this was a place that inspired. Bjorn waited until Tove’s back was turned until he snagged a pair of gloves down from the wall and passed them to him, to wear as he worked.

“I have my own,” Bjorn said at Askeladd’s questioning look. “Those aren’t very good, but they’ll keep your fingers from getting stripped raw by the stems. Last time Tove had me doing that one I couldn’t touch anything for a few days without it hurting pretty bad.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“I guess.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It’s more trouble for me if you can’t touch anything.”

“Right, of course.” He watched as Bjorn took his place beside Tove, reaching for one of the many mysterious bowls and contraptions that adorned the walls and shelves. He was curious, but it would be ridiculous to continually interrupt them and pester for understanding.

Despite himself, he was lulled by the sound of them working. All he knew is that it shouldn’t have been as enjoyable as it was; in such a peaceful, industrious place, he couldn’t muster the familiar disdain, the refuge in revulsion. He was captivated. They spoke frequently but only about bland, easy subjects; never about what they were doing. For work, they seemed to have perfected some silent language, comprised of practiced gestures and nods, and expressions Askeladd couldn’t see. That was interesting, too, though he was no closer to figuring it out than when he’d first noticed.

“Bring down the runesticks on the top shelf by the door,” Tove said when Askeladd had sorted through almost a quarter of the leaves, gesturing vaguely behind her.

Bjorn settled in for the expected argument, his grin combative. “All of them? Are you trying to break my back?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have a nice strong back.”

“Uh huh.”

“Perfect for bringing me my runesticks.”

“Just tell me specifically which one you want instead of trying to injure me with pointless tasks.”

“How can you judge if it’s pointless if you don’t know what it it’s for?” Tove said with a rotten little smile of her own. “Hurry now.”

It was clear Bjorn was grousing for the sake of it, perhaps because it was safe to do so here; this had the comfortable weight of habit. He made a great show of grumbling compliance, slumping over to the shelf in question, climbing up the edge to perch precariously, before hauling down an unwieldly bundle of runesticks, each about the length of his forearm and bound together by two straps of leather. He let them roll out of his arms onto Askeladd’s table with a graceless thud. “As requested, all the fucking runesticks,” he said, with an exaggerated flourish.

Tove ignored his attitude. “I would like you to transcribe their contents onto vellum. They’re getting worn, and the wood is harder for me to read.”

“How’s that.”

“I’m old, you know. My eyesight isn’t that good anymore.”

“Bullshit.”

“And before you snipe at me about digging through the hearths, I already have some ash set aside for you to mix the ink, and some of the treatment made.”

“You want me to make the ink too?”

“Would that be too taxing for you? And I notice no thanks for preparing more than half of what you needed.”

“Thanks.” His expression flattened. “I changed my mind. You’re trying to kill me with _boring_ pointless tasks.”

“Don’t be petulant. It’s peaceful work. You draw such straight runes, too. You can sit at that table over there. And I don’t need your help mixing these.”

“I’m being banished, then.”

“What a headache,” she sighed. “What’s the point of an apprentice if they won’t do as they’re told?”

“Decoration.”

Askeladd snorted, biting back the rest of his laughter; he shouldn’t have been listening so closely. “Hm,” Tove said with a supercilious frown, though Askeladd saw it twitched at the corners. “Get to work, or I’ll have you transcribe every runestick I have before you leave.”

Bjorn busied around the most cluttered corner of the hut before producing two bowls and a flask of suspect liquid, plopping down across from him at the table. He didn’t bother to hide his own smile. It was a little adorable that he enjoyed bickering so much, Askeladd thought, before locking the thought away. He should have been more irritated than he was; he should have been able to muster even the meanest bit of annoyance, but instead an unfamiliar heat settled in his chest, suffused his limbs, warmed his face. The effects of their work, probably; this place was overstuffed with sights and smells.

It didn’t Bjorn take long to make the ink; he mixed the ash with water and vinegar until it settled, spilling a little over the edge of the bowl in his haste. He was clearly too eager for the real task for caution, transposing endless minutiae on every subject from one medium to another. It would have bored a lesser person, Askeladd surmised, but Bjorn spread out the vellum over the table with an eager smile, securing its edges onto the table with weighted scraps he found in the vicinity, bits of wood and stone. When he dipped a tapered twig into the ink and set it to the vellum, Askeladd saw that Tove had been right; the runes he drew were straight and sharp.

“I haven’t seen many bother with vellum,” Askeladd said, absently pulling at leaves and dropping them into his bowl. “Hard to come by, hard to prepare.”

“That’s true. But it’s easier to store and transport, you can fit more in a smaller space. I think I’ll be able to fit most of these onto one piece. And I guess it is easier to read than carvings in wood. It’s the contrast, probably; black sticks out on beige.”

It was difficult not to be caught by the motion of his hands, skimming across the vellum; even when he paused to dab the twig in ink was part of the ritual. “What are you marking down here?”

“These are just a list of herbs and uses. I don’t even know why she keeps these around; she has everything memorized, so it’s just taking up room. Like here:” Bjorn said, indicating the runestick he was transcribing. “This one says you can use yarrow, willow bark, and valerian for pain – though valerian is good for sleeping problems too. But you have to be careful how much you give them, too much can make them sick. Lots of other things like that.” 

“This one doesn’t look like a list,” Askeladd said, poking at one of the newer runesticks at the bottom of the pile.

“Yeah, that one’s got verses.”

Askeladd leered at him. “Yours?”

‘What? No! I can’t write anything. I wouldn’t bother marking it down if I did, either. I remember some of older ones alright, though.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“What?”

“To write anything. If you haven’t, you don’t know that you can’t.”

Bjorn gave him a dirty look and bent back over the vellum. “You’re being obnoxious about this.”

“Am I?” Askeladd nettled him.

But Bjorn refused to be goaded further; he pushed away the current runestick and reached for another, arranging it at the top of the vellum. His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked, hard over serious eyes, hands quick. Askeladd had never seen anyone work like him, had never been interested enough to observe the difference, perhaps. He was entertaining to bait, that was all.

Askeladd noticed belatedly that Tove had stilled, as if listening to their sniping; only when they fell into silence did she launch back into her task, more stridently than before.

The silence didn’t last long, however; Askeladd had only stripped one more stalk before Bjorn was regarding him with renewed interest, earlier annoyance forgotten. “During that battle, you were fighting a man with a rusted byrnie; one moment your blades were locked, and when I turned back you’d twisted it out of his hands. How did you do it?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Askeladd said, a little taken aback by his eagerness. “It’ll be easier to show you. More slowly, I suppose.”

Bjorn smirked at him. “You can’t explain because you’re a natural.”

“Why do you say that like it’s some kind of insult?” 

“You sure like to project. I was just making an observation.”

“Right.”

“You never had to break it down into pieces to understand, so you don’t know how to do it for other people.”

“How ever shall I make up such a deficiency as a teacher, then.”

“Experience, probably.” Bjorn’s grin widened. “I’m not a natural at anything,” he said as snagged a runestick from the bottom of the pile. “I didn’t just pick up a spear and know immediately how to use it. It took years of work. So will this.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“Yep. I think I’ll probably appreciate it more than you, in the end.”

“Really now.”

“Sure. You got to skip over the cost, so you don’t know what it is. I have to struggle to pay it, so I know exactly how much.” 

He was right, which was the most annoying part; Askeladd had picked up a sword and known down to his bones how to use it, each instinct already married to application. When he tried something, it happened for him, sooner than later, and he could move on to the next. “Why ask me to teach you at all?”

“Well, I could probably pick it up alright if you show me. More slowly than for real, obviously.”

Askeladd knew, for the tenth time that day, that he should be more irritated by the sly routine than he was.

It was late into the afternoon when Askeladd completed his task; he swept aside the barren stalks and arranged the bowl of leaves at the corner of the table, to free the space before his hands. He pulled the gloves off carefully, savoring the feel of cool air on his damp hands. It was difficult not to be lulled; by the dimming light, the sound of the breeze, the smell of three dozen herbs mingling with lingering smoke from outside. Tove hummed a tune he thought he half remembered, and Bjorn murmured verse to himself, too quietly to discern. By now, he’d worked through most of the pile; only a few runesticks remained to be copied.

“Is that the _Hávamál_?” Tove asked him mildly.

“No! It’s not anything.”

“I heard you just now.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Which verse was it?”

“It wasn’t anything!”

“It sounded like something. Or are you just muttering nonsense to yourself?”

“I wasn’t doing either.”

“Hm. Perhaps: _‘Only the mind knows’ –”_

Bjorn pushed away from the table, his face blazing. “What is your problem today?!” He yanked a pair of gloves on his hands and snatched a basket off a hook by the doorway, shooting an outraged expression over his shoulder. “Obnoxious,” he muttered before stomping outside. “Ridiculous.”

“He’s so touchy,” Tove sighed after he was out of earshot, vigorously mashing her pestle into the mortar. “It was just an innocent question.”

Askeladd stared at the back of her head, her grey-streaked braid twitching as she suppressed her laughter, and felt his wariness deepen; there was nothing innocent about her. For half a heartbeat, he contemplated hurrying after Bjorn to spare himself any interrogation, but his leg hurt too much. “I don’t know the _Hávamál_ ,” he offered, hoping to distract. She couldn’t interrogate him if he interrogated her first.

“No? It’s quite popular around here.”

He kept his expression neutral through great force of will, though the misstep chafed.It was unusual that a true noble’s son should be more ignorant on the subject of culture than a healer’s apprentice from the middle of nowhere. He scrambled for a plausible explanation. “My uncle doesn’t like skalds,” he explained, his affect casual. “The last one to stay with us made off with some heirlooms, probably flipped them in Heiðabýr or some other big place. That’s enough for him to judge them all thieves.”

“How sad for your uncle,” Tove said. “Verse is an effective way to sharpen one’s mind.” A rueful twist of her lips. “And it passes the hour on cold nights and dull days. Though I must admit, in fairness to your uncle, that I don’t care much for _Havamál_ , myself.” 

“Why not?”

“Most of it is too dry for my tastes. Bjorn likes it for the structure of the verse, though.” She hmmed. “Some of them are acceptable, at least.”

“Not a total waste, then,” he said with a smirk. “Which would you say are the most worthwhile for a novice?”

She thought for a moment, her hands stilling over the pestle.

_“The unwise man  
is awake all night  
and thinks of all sorts of things;  
then he is tired  
when morning comes,  
and all the trouble is as it was.”_

Askeladd snorted. “Sounds as if the author would know.”

“Doesn’t it?” Tove said, laughing. “There are better poems, though; if you’re really interested in learning more.”

“I am, actually. For an herbwoman, you have a fine cadence.” He didn’t even need to lie. “Were you ever trained?”

“Not officially,” she said. “Wouldn’t that have been a fine education? No, I traveled with one for many years. I suppose it’s inevitable that you pick up some things, at least.”

“They must have been pretty good.”

“She –” Tove turned quickly, her hand catching the lid of the bowl she stood over and sending it flying across the room. It shattered before she could finish; shards skittered in every direction, and the substance she’d labored over all afternoon soaked into the dirt. _“Shit,”_ she cursed, and crossed the room in three steps, kneeling at the place of the worst damage.

“Let me help,” Askeladd said, as he pulled himself inelegantly to his feet. His leg didn’t hurt as much as it had this morning, strangely enough.

“No, really, it’s fine. These are quite sharp. You may cut your fingers.”

“Well, if there’s some risk, that means helping is at least a little noble. You should give me some credit for it.”

“I’m not sure I would go that far,” she said, wearing a mild smile. “But thank you.”

The bowl had broken impressively for such a small object, and a motion that was ostensibly accidental. She picked through the dirt for the shards as quickly as she could manage, wincing when her fingers caught against a jagged edge. It was true; the pieces were quite sharp, he thought warily, sifting through the dirt.

There was a sound behind them, and her head snapped up, eyes hard; when he turned to look as well, his fingers grazed the edge of a shard he had overlooked.

“Look, you’ve cut yourself,” Tove said, clucking her tongue. Askeladd had felt no pain, but sure enough when he looked at his hands, a rivulet of blood chased down his index finger. “Let me take care of that,” she said, snagging him by the wrist and rummaging inside a satchel at her waist before producing a small roll of linen.

“Be careful not to cut it off.” 

“This is a delicate operation. It’s possible that I make a mistake.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“Hm …” She wiped away the blood on his cut finger before it could run and stain his clothes. “I once treated a noble’s hand, one of your many esteemed relations, perhaps,” she said mildly. “He’d cut it ‘training’ or some such. Their hands are remarkable. So soft you might think they were bone sheathed in silk. Even the calluses from handling a sword were different – your fingers would glide right off them if you came at it from the wrong angle. And that makes sense, if you think about it; callus forms differently when you’re desperate. I’ve never figured out how they keep their hold on anything at all.” Her expression was smooth, unreadable. “They were hands that had never known hardship,” she said, her tone low, “or labor.”

She looked up at him. “It’s very strange. Your hand is nothing like his.”

Askeladd didn’t dare blink or breathe. It took every ounce of willpower not to yank his hand away. _What the fuck is with this woman?!_ “Not so strange at all. There’s more than one sort of noble, obviously. Perhaps not in this immediate area, but the world is pretty big.”

“Hm.” She tightened the bandage on his finger, adjusting its edges along his knuckle, her lips thinning. “What brought you to our village? There’s nothing here that would interest a worldly sort like you.” Any trace of the mild smile was gone.

“Would you insult your neighbors like that? Maybe they’re at least a little interesting.” 

She said nothing, drawing him out with withering silence; her expression didn’t even flicker. _I suppose that wasn’t worthy of a response._

He took a breath, gave an airy shrug. “I was bored. I was campaigning in England and decided to take the long way home.” Her pointed silence needled; her stare bored through him. “On the way back, I stopped at your village for some rest, and after I’d poked around a bit the attack began; I had nothing better to do than intervene.” It was such a small part of the truth that it felt no different than a lie; he didn’t mention _who_ he had been fighting, or exactly where in England, or how long he’d been gone. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He thought she would chastise him for his arrogance, but instead she looked at him for a long time, as if sifting the rest of the story from his face, peeling away affectation to stare at the truth beneath. “I see,” she said, and he knew that she did. “It was our fortune that one of such skill happened by when you did, then.”

“Is this village attacked often?” Askeladd wondered, to fill the silence, distract her from his secrets.

“Often enough,” said Tove, getting awkwardly to her feet, as if her knees pained her. “We’re just around the Danevirke, on a likely coast, connected by trade to half a dozen smaller villages and farms over fifty miles; it presents an attractive prospect for raiders.” A wry smile. “From north and south alike.”

“Bjorn doesn’t live in the village, though; how was he there?”

“He saw one of the beacons, I imagine. You didn’t notice them?”

“We didn’t pass anything like that on the way to his house.”

“Ah. Well, they keep beacon pyres on the high ground and light them if an unfamiliar ship is sighted. And you know men,” she said, shrugging. “Jumping at a chance to swing around their swords. It is dreadful dull most days.”

“Right.” It was interesting she would remain so long in a place she considered dull, but he let the subject drop. His finger barely smarted; neither did the realization that she had probably done this on purpose. To his surprise, he realized he could respect one who would cut a stranger they suspected was dangerous for the truth. Even when that stranger was himself.

“I changed my mind,” she pronounced. “The _Havamál_ is more than acceptable. Some verses are so fine, it justifies the whole work, even the dull parts.” She didn’t wait for him to ask for the verses that had inspired this outburst:

_“Only the mind knows  
what lives near the heart;  
a man is alone with his own spirit.  
There is no sickness worse  
for any wise man  
than to have nothing to love.”_

Askeladd blinked, too surprised to keep the incredulity out of his expression. He knew of no Norse love poems; he’d never faced such an incongruous thing in his life. “Who wrote that?” he wondered before he could stop himself.

“Some skald, somewhere else, many years ago. Their name is lost; only their words remain.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Is it?” Tove set aside the pestle.

“Sure. All that work, just to be forgotten.” 

“A name will mean little to the listener another hundred years from now, but their verse will resonate in a way a name never could. Their instruction, humor or insight. It’s more than enough to be wondered about.”

“Wouldn’t you rather get credit for the things you do?”

“I would rather my work survive, no matter what.” She finally favored him with a real smile. “Bjorn could write if he wanted to. You’re right to push him. Though you’ll have to push much harder if you want results; so far, I’ve been unsuccessful.”

“You’ve known him a long time, then?” Askeladd wondered, unable to restrain his curiosity.

“I knew him since he was born. Though he has only been my apprentice these last nine years.”

“Pretty good, as far as they go?” Askeladd needled, though he already knew the answer.

She didn’t need to be prodded. “He is exceptional,” she said outright. “A hungry mind. Even when he was small. ‘How does it work, Tove?’ Always so serious about each question, too. So little patience for ambiguity or uncertainty. The answer had to make sense, and we could not move on until it did so.” A fond smile. “He’s better about it now.”

Askeladd kept his expression neutral, but the realization warmed; there was far more than pride of a student in her face.

By the time she had finished cleaning the last of her failed afternoon experiment and salvaging anything available, Bjorn had wandered back in from the garden, the basket on his arm overstuffed with vegetables. He deposited the full basket beside the doorway and knelt beside the one he had brought from home, rummaging about its contents until producing the plate, tucking it under his arm. “Tove, c’mere,” he said, beckoning.

“What is it?”

“Just come here a minute. You wanted to make a point, well now I’m making a point. Look.” He brandished the plate. “Fixed. You shouldn’t be breaking your things.”

“I can do with my things what I wish,” Tove said, amused.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t, I said you _shouldn’t_. How long have you had this thing, anyway? It was really dumb, is all I’m saying.”

“Was it really?”

“Stop being annoying. What is going on with you today? Look, I put it together exactly as before. It can keep being a plate, you can keep on using it like always, and people will think ‘incredible, this has such beautiful webbing’, they might not even notice it had been broken in the first place. They might think it was always supposed to be like this. But most importantly, it will never break in these places again. So. In this case at least, I’m right.” He pointed at her. “No more breaking things on purpose.”

Tove turned the plate around in her hands, brushing her fingers over the spinning paths. “You went through a lot of trouble to show me this.”

“It can’t ever go back,” Bjorn allowed. “But wouldn’t you say this is nice, too?”

She was quiet a long time. “This is clever work, Bjorn,” she said finally, holding the plate to her chest; but after a moment her eyes narrowed. “I suppose that’s how you got that burn on your hand, working with the adhesive composite. You don’t have to tell me; I know I’m right. Have you treated it at all?”

Bjorn heaved an exasperated sigh, snatching his hand away before she could inspect it more closely for herself. “I just did something nice for you and you already want to punish me.”

“Treatment isn’t punishment, you ridiculous child.”

“The lecture is!”

Just as he attempted to break away, she laid her hand on his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, beaming at him.

He ducked out of her reach. “You don’t have to make a big deal about it,” he muttered.

“I believe I should, actually.”

“Nope. We’re leaving.” He crossed the room and clambered up onto the counter by the doorway, rummaging about the ceiling, where an assortment of creatures dangled from slings. “I’m taking one of the birds,” he said, snagging one of the newer-looking pheasants, before wrapping it in linen and stuffing it into his satchel.

“Make sure you bring it back,” Tove called over her shoulder.

Bjorn snickered, hopping down from the counter. After he strapped his axe to his waist, he pulled his satchel over his arm and shouldered open the door, striding out into the late afternoon sunshine. Askeladd snatched the walking stick up from the side of the hut and hurried in his wake.

“You’re lucky to have such an agreeable neighbor,” Askeladd said when Tove’s hut had passed into the distance. The path before them was straight and narrow, worn as if by many years, but the sides were lacy with untampered green, twining wildflowers and weeds.

“Agreeable is one way to put it.”

“Well, you are. A neighbor is not always such a beneficial thing.”

Bjorn frowned at him. “Are they not so around your holdfast?”

Askeladd measured his words, watching a pair of birds skim the grass in the distance before launching toward the sky. “They are very carefully appeased; their loyalty is courted with gold and silver.”

“Hm. I guess they have to provide for their households, too.”

“Well,” Askeladd said, no longer smiling. “If you have selfish or cruel neighbors, it’s better they fear you, in the end. You’ll never be able to rely on their kindness.”

“That’s pretty bleak.”

“Am I wrong?”

Bjorn sighed, kneeling to cut a sprig of green and gold that grew at the side of the path. “No.”

“So, it’s like I said. You’re very lucky.” It surprised him to realize he was a little jealous; he had grown up in privilege for half his life, elevated due to talent he had no control over, but he had never been taught anything of true use. They had both been nurtured for their virtues; Askeladd wished that he had better ones, something like this, something making, growing, building wonders from nothing.

“I think so, too.” Bjorn was smiling again. “Forget sharing food or whatever. Hospitality is normal around here. But I don’t know anyone that gets to practice writing on vellum. You only ever see it used for maps and the like.”

That’s exactly what he was talking about. “Your hand isn’t sore from writing all afternoon?”

“Nah. Not that bad.”

“They say monks in scriptoriums spend hours and days illuminating the word of their god or whatever, drawing them in curving letters of gold.”

“How do they get the gold on the page?”

“What?”

“You said they were drawn in gold, how does that work?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hm. Too bad.” But he grinned. “It’d be interesting to try.” He nodded at Askeladd’s leg. “How is that holding up?”

“Pretty good, actually.”

“Good. I think maybe another week.”

“What?”

“Another week of treating your leg and resting up, and you should be able to go home.”

“Right …”

“You must be so eager to get out of here,” Bjorn said with an embarrassed smile before hurrying ahead, stowing the latest bundle of weeds in the satchel as he went.

But Askeladd wasn’t. That was the worst part, what frustrated him beyond words -- this place and its people should have disgusted him as much as they did at home, but he was compelled beyond sense, fascinated despite reason; the more he learned the more he wanted to know. Even the presence of a menace like Rorik didn’t affect his general feeling; if anything, Bjorn and Tove tolerating such a monster spoke well to their character and endeared him further. He knew what it was to carve out survival from under the fist of a tyrant.

 _What are you slave to?_ Askeladd wondered, watching Bjorn gathering weeds and flowers as he went, the paring knife flashing between his fingers. He was starting to sense the shape of the answer; Bjorn was willing to endure a lifetime of thankless labor and abuse out of devotion to a mentor, and loyalty to a mother long dead. Askeladd wondered what it was like to be loved so powerfully, so true.

“Can’t believe I almost forgot,” Bjorn was saying, rubbing his forehead with the back of his free hand. “He made me so mad this morning …”

 _Angrier than usual?_ Askeladd wanted to ask but stopped himself. It would be suspicious to keep prodding him for his thoughts, especially if he wasn’t forthcoming with the answer. More than that, the intensity of his curiosity was starting to unnerve him. He forced himself into silence for the rest of the trek.

“Look, uh … wait here for a minute,” Bjorn said with a reluctant gesture when they had crested a low slope bordering the forest. A cairn rested some distance away. “This won’t take long.” 

Askeladd held up his hands. “No hurry on my account.”

The awkward expression softened into something more genuine; something that could have been a smile, given more time to grow, but he turned away with his head down, and hurried down the path to the cairn before Askeladd could see it.

It took him a few moments to realize what this place was, and what Bjorn was doing; only when he caught sight of the thin tendril of smoke coiling into the sky did he understand this cairn was a grave, and the likeliest occupant was Bjorn’s mother. He knew the practice well enough; this blót was always done at sunset, when the space between day and night grew thin. The hope was so too did the veil between worlds.

In the distance, the figure of Bjorn had knelt before the carefully arranged stone. Perhaps there was art to it; impossible for Askeladd to tell from this far away, but he imagined there must be. Every few heartbeats the wind would whisper over the plain, bending the grass, blurring the smoke above the cairn. And Askeladd was torn; endeared that Bjorn would keep this ritual private, even as he wanted to know more, hear what he said, the quality of his voice as he prayed.

Askeladd lost track of time. The only indication any had passed was the position of the sun; hovering just above the horizon when Bjorn strode back up the path to where Askeladd stood. “Thank you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Askeladd flashed him a charming grin and fell into step alongside him. “A ritual is important routine, and all. You have an obligation.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Shouldn’t your father handle the _blót_ for his own wife’s cairn?” Askeladd wondered. “That’s how it’s done around where I’m from.”

“That’s how it’s done most places, probably.” Bjorn shook his head. “He never comes here. I asked him to help me with it the first few times, but he’d just get upset.”

Askeladd said nothing, though inwardly he cringed; he probably could have guessed that much by now.

It was something else to covet, yet he couldn’t resent his host for possessing it; he wondered what it would be like to have his own mother’s resting place within walking distance, just a few minutes away from whatever concern. 

“This one went well, though,” Bjorn was saying as they came up the path to his home. It loomed, sad and squat as ever, a dark spot in a bright field. “The bird wasn’t rotten or anything.”

“I had a feeling you were probably pretty safe there.”

He had opened his mouth to reply when a loud shout from the house startled them both into silence. Before Askeladd could say anything, Bjorn had darted to the side of the house, beneath the window. Askeladd limped quickly after him, lodging himself beside, careful to keep quiet. When they looked over the edge of the sill, Bjorn drew back in shock.

The shout had been Tove. “You exhausted my understanding long ago,” she snarled, jabbing a finger in Rorik’s chest. His face was ugly with hate. “If you interfere now, you will suffer for it.”

Bjorn’s hand shot out reflexively and gripped his wrist, so hard he felt his bones creak. “What the fuck is she doing?!” he hissed, trembling.

Askeladd could only stare, too startled to withdraw his hand. Far from silently tolerating her apprentice’s abuse, she had probably followed them, waited until Bjorn had wandered toward his mother’s cairn to threaten the source without Bjorn’s knowing. And there was something about her voice that raised a chill on the back of Askeladd’s neck; he saw her blade flashing across the pig’s throat, sudden as a lightning strike. All he could see was the afterimage.

Neither said any more. She turned on her heel and shoved outside, storming down the path, too distracted to notice them huddled beneath the window, their faces nearly identical with shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry this one took me 3x as long as i anticipated -- the last month has been occupied by health nonsense, but it is getting much better now so i should be able to write as normal!! huge thank you to everyone who has read, fav, followed, kudoed etc so far, and special thank you to those leaving me comments with your thoughts! those keep me going when the going gets tough! <3333


	8. Chapter 8

They waited, unbreathing, until the sound of Rorik stumping around the longhouse faded, and the smell of something savory suffused the air. Both instinctively knew to reveal themselves now would only make things worse; it was an argument no one should have overheard. Bjorn realized Askeladd’s wrist was still clenched in his grasp, but both were too rattled to have noticed at the moment; when he released his grip, there were four white marks stark against Askeladd’s flushed skin.

His thoughts spun, and foreboding tied his gut to knots. He never knew Tove and his father had been in contact with one another, or had any idea what Rorik was supposed to keep from interfering. But he knew that his father was not one to tolerate threats. He had the sensibility of a cornered animal, always most dangerous when driven to desperation.

Only after an acceptable amount of time had passed did Bjorn crawl away from the window and get to his feet, before reaching down and helping Askeladd to his. _His leg must be hurting him so bad,_ Bjorn thought as he parsed Askeladd’s expression, noting the slightest hint of a wince. Dragging him around all day had probably been a bad idea, no matter how much he had wanted to get out of this dismal hut and avoid its unpleasant company. He might have to stay even longer now.

Bjorn figured he should have felt sorrier about the prospect than he actually did, but there was no denying that having Askeladd around for a few extra days was nice to think about. The house would seem unbearably empty without him, a cold and dark place, dangerous, where fear was as constant and natural as breathing. But when the fire is dazzling enough, you forget there is anything apart from light, or that there’s a world outside of its warmth.

He and Askeladd said nothing until they were a circumspect distance away from the house, before Askeladd eased himself to the ground behind a particularly recalcitrant patch of grass, rubbing at his thigh with his thumbs. 

“I’m sorry,” Bjorn said, kneeling beside him. “I think we should wait out here until he goes to sleep.” He cringed as he said it, wanted nothing more than to crawl into the earth; how ridiculous to keep tiptoeing around his insane father, and embarrassing to have to do so in front of his guest.

“Makes sense to me,” Askeladd said easily, kneading his calf. “I’m not too interested in his company at the moment.” He snorted. “Or any moment.”

But Bjorn didn’t smile. He rubbed at his forehead, frowning hard. “What the fuck is she thinking, getting in his face like that?”

“You don’t think she can handle herself?”

“I know she can, actually,” Bjorn said, annoyed by the accusation. “Still doesn’t change that Rorik makes short work of people good at handling themselves.”

“How do you know? You said you’ve never seen him fight.”

“I said I never saw him use a sword, not that I never saw him fight. It’s not the same thing.”

Askeladd arched a brow at him. “So you saw him rip someone apart barehanded, then.”

Bjorn said nothing, pushing the memory away, the sight of it, the _sound_. Askeladd’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you serious?!”

“Shh!”

“You can’t leave it at that.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Bjorn closed his eyes. “Some outlaws … I don’t know, ten years ago? My mother was still alive. They came into the house when we were in there, making dinner or something, and my father was outside, heard us screaming, and – well, you can probably imagine the rest.”

“Actually, I can’t,” Askeladd said, incredulous. “How did he manage it with only one arm?”

“It was born like that, so he got used to it. I dunno.”

“It’s not an old injury?”

“Nah. Don’t see how that would improve his outlook much either.”

“I wasn’t aware they allowed one-armed infants to live around here,” Askeladd said sharply. His brow furrowed over hard eyes, and his lips pressed tightly together, an angry slash of a frown.

Bjorn reflexively recoiled at the strength of his reaction. “My grandmother wanted to leave him out in the middle of the night somewhere. It was winter, so he probably would’ve died fast. But my grandfather refused. How could you judge one by their acts when they haven’t done anything yet? The old ways were important to him. Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves. So they kept him.”

Askeladd’s lips twisted as he drew away, and Bjorn thought he knew the reason; in these kinds of stories, it was usually the woman begging to save the child from the father’s callous disgust. But his grandparents had been from the far north, an unspeakably harsh place, where only the strongest could survive, and his grandmother had internalized the nature of the land. What couldn’t contribute, didn’t deserve a place at the table. She and his grandfather had driven Rorik mercilessly, relentless as a winter storm. He never spoke of them, and even as a child Bjorn had known better than to ask. Instead, he posed the question to his mother. She had looked over her shoulder for a long moment before bending low to Bjorn’s ear, to whisper this awful truth; his kin would forsake their blood for the first offense, one that wasn’t even his fault.

Bjorn didn’t know the particulars but to him it had seemed monstrously unfair; his father hadn’t actually done anything worth judging, hadn’t accomplished any deeds to revere or revile. But more than that, Bjorn had by then learned that people could adapt to anything, and do what you might not have expected; he knew his father wreaked terror in the Frankish lands a few days south of here, his name spoken with trepidation and fear, and no halved arm ever got in his way. In fact, it seemed to unsettle people even more, that someone so disadvantaged could be so deadly. He wondered if his father didn’t prefer it that way.

They waited until certain Rorik had stumped off to his loft, to poke critically at his carvings or lose himself in mead for the rest of the night; it had only been an hour or so, Bjorn guessed, though he’d been too anxious to closely mark the passage of time. Carefully, Bjorn pushed through the taller grass behind the house with Askeladd limping behind him, his uneven steps rustling the grass.

When they were within hearing distance, Askeladd drew a huge breath. “That _blót_ was excellent, much better than the way they do it in my village,” he said loudly. “This place is lucky to have such a versatile healer.”

“She’s not the only one,” Bjorn said, keeping his voice low. He had a visceral aversion to raising his voice in that house, even in its vicinity. “There’s a couple of ‘em that practice a few days north, mostly, but they go all over the area when there’s lot of people in need.”

“Still, there’s acceptable and there’s _exceptional,”_ Askeladd said with an easy smile. “I’m just saying it’s a relief to see some artistry in the whole business. Anyone who handles a blade that well at a sacrifice must know their way around it everywhere else.”

Bjorn realized what he was doing, but the way he did it made his heart clench: distract with easy conversation, while emphasizing Tove’s skill. It was highly inappropriate, definitely unwelcome, and would probably make things worse, but Bjorn almost wanted to squeeze his hand; no one had been moved to intercession on his or Tove’s behalf in a long time.

Bjorn pushed at the back door, nudging it a creak just to make certain Rorik wasn’t there, before pushing it open the rest of the way. The main room was still clean, and the fire was well-tended. Bjorn marveled at the sight; either Rorik had made an effort to keep things in their places while he was gone, or Tove’s threat had chastened him into a scrap of consideration. He didn’t know which unnerved him more.

“You can have that,” Bjorn said to Askeladd as he hobbled over to his pallet, easing slowly onto the fire-warmed furs. He nodded at the contents of the pot over the fire-pit, still half-full with some kind of stew. Not particularly appetizing, but it was a relief not to have to cook for one night. “I’ll find some bread.”

There was just enough for them to have two servings apiece; fairly respectable, considering the leanness of the harvest. As he and Askeladd picked nervously at their bowls, too anxious to talk, he was abruptly annoyed with himself; what a waste to give him a break at all, if he was going to be too rattled to properly appreciate it. “Do you think you’ll be well enough to show me something with the sword?” he made himself ask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I want to know how you disarmed with a pivot.”

Askeladd grinned. “I could probably show you something even if I wasn’t well.”

Bjorn rolled his eyes. “Arrogance isn’t charming, you know. And doesn’t inspire that much confidence either.”

“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”

Bjorn said nothing; he fixed Askeladd with a flat look over the rim of his bowl and slurped the dregs of his stew until Askeladd’s rotten little grin gave way to exasperation. “Alright, stop. You sure like to bait people.”

“And that’s a problem for you now, hypocrite?”

Askeladd’s mouth twitched; he kept it together for only a few seconds before the unsteady scowl gave way to a grin, this one more genuine than the one before. “You got me,” he said, ladling more stew into his bowl.

~

It was the deepest hour of the night, and Bjorn couldn’t sleep. Outside a chill wind howled through the rafters, slicing through the minuscule gaps in the walls Bjorn had yet to repair for the winter. But there was always so much to do, and it must be done perfectly, or he’d bear the consequences, sometimes for days after the thrashing. He was exhausted, weary down to his bones, but he couldn’t sleep.

Bjorn tossed and turned on the pallet in the corner by his worktable, careful to keep from making too much noise. His thoughts roiled, too fast to organize. What had Tove been doing, threatening Rorik? The question worried at him like a dog over an old bone. It didn’t surprise Bjorn that she didn’t fear his father, though that struck him as foolish; but then again, she didn’t have the questionable benefit of living with him to observe his deranged behavior in person. She would see the bruises on Bjorn’s face and deem his father a garden variety coward, someone who could be safely cowed by threats.

Holding his breath, Bjorn rolled to his feet without rustling the pallet. Like a wraith, he moved across the room and kept his footsteps slow and even, balancing on the pads of his feet; it was harder to mask the sound of his weight with heels striking earth. But he was accustomed to silence; he almost didn’t have to think about it anymore.

Though he knew it was inappropriate, he watched the lumpy shadow of Askeladd’s form half the room away, curled up on his side with his back to the firepit. His pale hair shone bronze in the weak, flickering light. His shoulders slowly rose and fell, and the sound of his slow breathing somehow made this miserable place feel more like a home. Bjorn didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone here too long, but circumspection quickly gave way to implacable anxiety. He could no longer outrun the sensation.

He’d probably get a backhand for his trouble if Rorik woke and discovered him gone, but he needed perspective, and there was only one person whose view he trusted enough to guide his life. He was halfway across the room before he’d consciously decided to leave. Carefully, he eased open the door and slipped past the threshold, edging it shut once again with his back to the frame, before stepping out into the perfect dark.

He didn’t have to slow his pace for Askeladd now, so it took him half the time it had this morning to reach Tove’s hut. In the distance, the surf rushed against the shore, the sound of darkness itself, but just ahead a light flickered in the only window, casting a weak glow on a band of grass outside. It didn’t surprise Bjorn that she was still awake too; when you were a healer, something was always going wrong in the middle of the night.

He knocked twice slowly, followed by three raps in quick succession. “Come in, Bjorn,” came the immediate reply; not only was she awake, she had been working on something. Maybe her argument with his father had tangled her thoughts too badly for sleep, as it had for Bjorn. He gave the door a gentle push and stepped inside, breathing deeply; the mingled scents of this place always put him at ease, though tonight the effect was considerably less than usual. With a sigh, he plopped at the table in the corner, crossing his arms atop it and cradling his head.

Tove finally spoke after five minutes, scraping the edge of her knife against an earthenware bowl. “Did you come here for any particular reason, or did you just want to huff at me while I work.”

Bjorn said nothing. Worry chewed his gut to tatters, and the residual panic made his hands clammy and cold. He thumped his thumb on the table in an increasingly distressed pace, until Tove took a seat across from him.

“Come now, what’s this about?” she said, poking his furrowed brow. “You’ll give yourself a headache.”

But Bjorn didn’t smile; he couldn’t muster the effort with fear twisting in his stomach into knots. “What were you doing arguing with Rorik?” He thumped his thumb so hard on the table it struck a nerve.

She only missed a beat. “Ah. So you were listening.”

“You weren’t exactly trying to be quiet. I dunno what you were trying to accomplish getting in his face like that, but he won’t just let that kind of thing go.” He chewed a hangnail on his index finger. “I think you need to leave.”

“Bjorn, your father isn’t going to do anything to me. He would have to run away afterward, and he’s too much of a lazy coward to countenance the work of starting over somewhere else, alone. There are laws. He isn’t so stupid as to flagrantly break them and jeopardize little what he has.”

“He is _exactly_ that hateful. I’m serious, I think you need to get out of here.”

“Bjorn, honestly. I have duties here, you know that.”

“I don’t mean you have to leave forever, maybe just … lay low for a few weeks. Or months. Find some new village to treat for awhile, something like that.”

But she only shook her head, and Bjorn finally felt his frustration spill over. “Why won’t you take this seriously?” he snapped. He made a point not to share his anxieties often; to have them dismissed out of hand, as if he were a toddler unsettled by a mere bad dream, smarted more than he would ever admit.

“I don’t mean to underestimate your worries,” she said gently.

“That is exactly what you’re doing right now.”

“Then I don’t mean to be cruel about it.”

“What were you even arguing about, anyway? What is he meddling in?”

Tove was quiet for a long time, measuring her answer, her brows knitted together. “We argued about the same thing as we always do. Your father is a small man.”

The more Bjorn was confronted with the fact that his father and Tove regularly argued, the more unbelievable he found it. He wanted to keep pressing her for the truth, but he knew if she didn’t already want to share it, there would be no convincing her otherwise; she was impossible to persuade.

“Bjorn,” she said again, gripping his hand. “Please stop worrying about this. Your father will only harm someone he assumes won’t fight back, and he knows that I would.”

 _Assuming you’d have the chance,_ Bjorn thought, but said nothing. Despite himself, he couldn’t help to warm up to her perspective; if this had been going on as long as she made it sound and nothing had happened yet, nothing probably would. He huffed a long sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“You, on the other hand,” she said, squeezing his fingers, “should seriously consider leaving now.”

“Why are you so desperate to get rid of me?” he said, trying to smile.

She sighed, and shook her head, as if the answer were obvious. “Why are _you_ so committed to being dramatic? As if I want you to leave because I’m sick of you – as if that were even possible. The truth is you’re young and the world is big, and you haven’t seen any of it.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you’d never see me again?”

“Oh? I had figured you for a diligent apprentice, who would return every few years to collaborate with his mentor.”

He struggled to form words. “You want that?”

“What is that look? Come now, it’s expected. You will learn independently, as will I, and we share what we’ve discovered. So we both learn more than we might have if you remain here. That’s how I worked with my own master.”

“I don’t remember you ever going on pilgrimages.”

“I did the first few years after I left home.” She brushed a lock of hair out of his face and patted the top of his head. “His place was still the best to perform _utiseta.”_ She smiled grudgingly. “My grove isn’t an unacceptable alternative, but it is much younger. His has been cultivated by his kin for centuries. It has seen the rise and fall of countless peoples, perhaps even a kingdom or two.”

He rolled his eyes at the exaggeration. “Fine, fine. I get the point. They’re very old trees.”

“I hope you will see them too, someday. They really are remarkable things. See if it doesn’t feel as if they’re watching you the moment you enter the grove.”

A shiver rippled up his back. The more she pressed, the more he allowed himself to think about it, the more it beckoned. 

“To be frank, I doubt my master is still alive,” she continued. “But I’ll wager some of his kin are still there, tending cairns and alters, presenting burnt offerings to the spirits that linger in those trees. It’s not wise to leave such places unattended for too long, or to ignore its restless denizens.”

“Probably a lot of them by now, if the place is as old as you said.”

“I think so, too.”

He fell silent for a moment, scuffing at the ground. The prospect of leaving made him sad, though not as much as he thought it would; rather, something like anticipation built in his chest, an edgy eagerness he usually stuffed down, rather than let it take root. It grew now, each accelerating thought chasing the next, possibility outpacing guilt and fear. “You wouldn’t be too short handed if I left, then?”

“Well, I won’t lie; it will take some adjustment. But you know I can usually enlist Solveig to give me a hand, when she can be bothered.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence,” Bjorn said.

“I shouldn’t encourage you, but you’re right.” She heaved a long sigh. “You aren’t supposed to have favorites. It doesn’t encourage much fellow feeling amongst apprentices that would be better served collaborating instead of competing. As you could have probably guessed. But you … you are my pride,” she said with a smile, and smoothed his hair. “You know that already, too.”

“I don’t,” he said, almost too embarrassed for words. “You rake me over the coals constantly, how should I know you think that well of me?”

“Ridiculous child. I hope you have the fortune to know this from my side someday; it is the best that you push the hardest, because they’re capable of the most.”

Bjorn rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to look as pleased as he felt. “Well, thanks. I guess. Though you shouldn’t hold your breath on me teaching anybody anything.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t make proclamations before you’ve even left home.”

“Think you know it all, huh?”

“I think you won’t be able to help yourself.” She smirked at him. “You certainly couldn’t help yourself today.”

The jibe instantly found its mark; heat rushed to his cheeks. “Well, he didn’t know anything! It’d be obnoxious to leave him in the dark the whole day.”

“Yes, of course. That’s what it was.”

He snatched his hand back. “If you’re going to be ridiculous, I’m leaving.”

“You best get going, then.”

Before she could squeeze his hand again, he slid out of the chair and bustled about the room, gathering what things he had left from the previous morning, and a few others he had left last week: a bone needle with a smaller gauge than the one he normally used, an earthenware flask with cork, the basket he’d stuffed with bread and fish. But just as he nudged open the door with his foot, she caught him by the arm and pulled him into a tight hug.

She was much shorter than he was, so he had to bend clumsily for her arms to reach around his neck. “Wh-?”

She squeezed tighter. “When you go, I will miss you very much,” she said, half muffled. “But you know that already.”

After a moment passed, he awkwardly disentangled himself, his throat tight. He did know, but it was nice to hear anyway. “Alright, already. You’re gonna strangle me.”

She released him with a rotten grin. “I will even miss your complaining.” 

~

By the time he made it back home, the sky had begun to shift; not the true light of dawn, but a thin, insubstantial blue and pale green, the color of a bruise. Inside, the fire had gone out; both his father and Askeladd were still asleep, or near enough to make no matter.

Bjorn only hesitated over the threshold for a moment, before crossing the room to his work table. In the byre, he could hear the animals stirring; soon he would be hounded by the grind of routine, the endless chores and sore hands and knees, but for this moment possibility loomed. Where before uncertainty had gnawed at him, now purpose took its place. He immediately knew that to tell his father of his nascent plans was the surest way to see they never came to pass; therefore, it was important he made his preparations without giving anything away.

Dropping to his knees, he pushed aside a flat wooden box filled with scraps and detritus from his last project. In the corner, behind the table’s left back leg, was a little hole where he kept his most important things. He eased the wooden covering away before peering inside, checking that the contents were still all there, sifting aside each as he marked it. The top layer consisted of useless things that had once held emotional attachment, and would ward off further exploration should his hiding place be discovered: A sachet of old herbs; a tiny hammer carved out of ash, engraved with swirling patterns; a bag of half-sprouted seeds. Beneath it all was what Bjorn was really looking for.

He stared at the small bottles for a long time. _Get rid of them,_ part of him urged, but circumstances held him back. Tove had dismissed his concerns about his father, and on the other side of their conversation they seemed childish and small. Just as importantly, it had taken him over a fortnight to collect enough hemlock for this concentrate, which was a delicate operation all on its own, to say nothing of how long it had taken to distill and refine. As the process was dangerous, he could ultimately sell such a thing for a lot of coin or hacksilver, and he would need it if he was setting out on his own.

 _I’ll go to Haithabu first,_ he thought, watching Askeladd’s shoulders rise and fall from across the room before tucking the bottles back into their secret place. He didn’t have much, but at least some of it could be traded or sold for a decent price. _And I’ll get a sword._ The world would seem smaller with one in his hand. 

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

After an hour of tossing and turning, trying in vain to accommodate his wounded shoulder, Bjorn gave up on sleep. It was still dark, yet a sullen, oppressive heat had already settled over the land, chasing away the mist and dew, summer’s last gasp. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and frowned; it would be a dirtier trek with dry roads and an implacable sun beating down on the back of his neck. And that was assuming his father would even agree to the journey.

Bjorn kept his footsteps light as he crossed the room before slipping into the byre, where the animals were stirring. Pale beams of light trickled through the gaps in the walls, and the air already carried with it the bracing scent of the sea, mingling with manure and straw. He took a breath and held it, letting it settle in his chest before exhaling slowly. The sheep nosed at his hand through the gaps in the pen, shuffling past one another for better access to him, and he rubbed the tops of their heads, as he knew they liked. The thought of leaving them behind made a lump rise in his throat. He couldn’t rely on Rorik to take care of them like they needed, even though they were vital to his continued existence in relative comfort. The loss of even one chicken would threaten his likelihood of survival, especially with the winter coming on.

Guilt coiled in his gut. That beautiful, blazing certainty hadn’t even lasted the morning.

He shoved away his unease as he went about his chores, his mouth set against whatever ludicrous emotion might assail him next. He was being ridiculous. His father was an adult, nearly forty; he had survived before he got himself a family, he could do so again. Maybe he’d get himself another one, and it’d make him happier than the first one ever did.

By the time he had finished his morning chores, Bjorn had convinced himself anew that leaving was the right choice. It was ridiculous, he was nearly eighteen and the most battle he had ever seen was defending the village and its surrounding roads from bandits and outlaws. There was little repute in such work; as necessary as it was, it would impress no blooded warrior fresh from campaign. And they would be; around this time of year, ships of men returned from a-viking to their villages and strongholds for the harvest and a winter of rest, before they set out once again in the spring.

If he left now, he could probably find a group by then. Speculation carried him away.

Bjorn found his father chopping a log into smaller pieces; each crack cut the air as the blade split that razor fine line between the smallest grain of wood, precision that was only possible through endless repetition. He was wearing his prosthetic, as a counterweight for each swing. Before the next breath, the pieces broke apart and clattered at his feet. 

“Father,” Bjorn said. For once, seeing him like this didn’t make him angry; once again guilt tied his stomach to knots as he looked at his father’s pale, weathered face, shaggy black hair hanging in his eyes and plastered to his brow with sweat.

“What do you want, boy,” Rorik said, leaning on the shaft of the axe as an old man would a cane. For a long moment, the two of them just looked at each other. Wind rushed, the animals lowed, but they shared that regard in perfect stillness. He didn’t know what his father was thinking, but for him, it was a lot harder to hate his father when he looked like this, just a sad, broken old man, with no one else in the world.

Bjorn shoved away the pity he so detested and summoned his nerve. “I’m going to Haithabu to sell some stuff I made,” he said uneasily. His fingers twitched, and he stifled the urge to escape the situation. “I figured you’d have at least a few things ready, too, since it’s been a few months since I was there last.” 

There was no tirade, no biting sarcasm sharpened to wound; for once Rorik assented with a nod and let the ax handle thud against the pile of wood over which he’d be laboring. No matter how he felt about it, they were running low on silver, and it would be harder to trade in the smaller villages without. Hurrying in his wake, Bjorn followed him inside. With one nod of the head, he rendered useless all of the rhetoric Bjorn had so painstakingly constructed to convince an obstinate target. Not that he’d complain. It was as likely that he would have said no just to be spiteful, even though they needed the supplies. Bjorn wondered at this uncharacteristic mood, and his unease deepened. Whatever the cause, he would bear the brunt of disappointment when it ended.

 _Not for long._ The thought was like a shining torch in darkness.

Askeladd was beginning to wake by the time Bjorn and his father had gathered everything to be sold and piled it by their small mule-driven cart. Bjorn didn’t recognize any of these pieces, he thought as he wrapped them in wool and carefully loaded them into the cart. He’d been too distracted lately to notice what his father had been doing when he wasn’t making it Bjorn’s immediate problem. There wasn’t much space to fret about his doings after absorbing the force of his temper.

He made note of one now; among a few stools and a small table, there was a Hnefatafl board, edged with bold, sweeping curls that coiled and interlaced like locking fingers. The accompanying pieces, instead of the plain standard, were lightly carved with the features of fantastic creatures. Bjorn knew at a glance the set would fetch a respectable price, if not the one it truly deserved. Perhaps with the alehouse on the south end. But he could never count on their generosity; the merchants of Haithabu were shrewd, hardnosed.

By the time he finished loading the cart and ducked back inside, Askeladd was fully awake, munching on a piece of bread. Bjorn couldn’t hold back the smile; he’d helped himself without asking or needing to be told where everything was. He crammed the rest of it in his mouth when he caught sight of Bjorn in the doorway.

“How is that leg doing?” Bjorn asked him, worrying a hangnail on his thumb. It took him a moment to notice the taste of blood. His distraction frayed his nerves, pulled at his mood. It would be better the sooner he got out of here.

Askeladd flexed his foot experimentally, rolling his thigh and practicing a few stretches. “Not too bad, actually. Just a little sore.”

 _He was limping pretty badly yesterday,_ Bjorn thought with a frown. It wouldn’t surprise Bjorn to learn he was underplaying his pain, a familiar tactic of his own. But he was too anxious to make a fuss; his thoughts were a frenzy, each one fled before it could be properly caught and settled.

 _What’s going on with Rorik?_ He couldn’t make sense of it.

He swallowed. “So I was thinking today I’d start out toward _Heiðabýr_ and sell some things, trade up for others. Rorik has a batch of carvings ready so there’s some excuse for me to head that way already. I’ll have my mule and a cart, you can ride along, if you like. Or if you’d rather rest while I’m gone, that’s fine too.”

“I’ll come along,” Askeladd said, clambering awkwardly to his feet. “I’ve never seen the eastern Danevirke up close.”

“It’ll take a couple days to get there and back,” Bjorn warned him. “The road is pretty safe, though. The king keeps some of his men on patrol to protect the trade lines. I only ran into trouble on it once since I started making this trip.”

“Which was how long ago?”

Bjorn shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Awhile.”

“You really don’t see trouble often?”

“Nah. Who’s gonna make a fuss over some woodcarvings.” It made sense Askeladd would fret over it, though, considering how he’d been wounded.

He left it at that, and to his credit, Askeladd didn’t press further. Instead, he buckled his swordbelt around his waist and attached his sword, but his eyes never left Bjorn’s face, as if searching, probing for the answer to a question unasked. Inexplicably unbalanced, Bjorn turned away and stepped out of the room, scuffing his arm on the doorframe when he ducked into the byre to bring out Arní and hitch the cart to her harness.

Arní was nearly a decade old and in possession of the most equitable temperament Bjorn had ever seen in an animal, at least when it came to him. He never noticed his father here, so he supposed it was possible he was good with the animals too, but somehow he doubted it.

As he hitched Arní to the cart, Rorik loaded the last of the supplies, four days of food and water, along with Bjorn’s axe and shield. His spear he would carry himself. He said nothing as he passed Bjorn on his way back inside, only nodded once when their eyes met. Bjorn thought he might want to send them on their way with some half-hearted threats, as was his habit, but instead he ducked back inside and disappeared into the gloom.

Bjorn watched him go, distracted unease twisting in his gut. He could maybe allow his father a curt and silent assent earlier, but the man had never passed up the chance to give Bjorn some kind of blistering lecture before he went to the market. Especially not after the last time

By the time Bjorn had finished with Arní’s harness, Askeladd had joined him by the cart, storing his things in a secure corner. He grinned wide when Bjorn turned to look at him, indicating the truculent mule headbutting his side.

“This is Arní. She’ll get us there no trouble.”

Askeladd gaped at him. “You named your mule ‘eagle’?”

Bjorn couldn’t keep from snickering, mostly at Askeladd’s reaction. “It’s funny, right?”

“You have a weird sense of humor,” Askeladd shot back, but his lips trembled against a grin. “And Arní is a man’s name.”

“She’s not a man, she’s a mule,” Bjorn said, rubbing the top of Arní’s head and grinning when she nosed at his side. “Who cares? She doesn’t.”

Askeladd held out his hand to the mule, as if to give her a pat on the head; she regarded it warily for a moment before snapping at his fingers. His betrayed expression was so overwrought that Bjorn burst into laughter.

“You don’t know how to win animals over,” Askeladd said peevishly as he snatched his hand to his chest. “Since they already like you on the spot.”

“Now, that’s not true.”

“It is! Immediately! That pig you were going to sacrifice didn’t even know what was coming for it because it liked you so much. Happily followed you to die.”

Bjorn swallowed uneasily. “You’re making too much of it. I take care of those animals every time I’m at Tove’s; they just know who I am.”

“Are they so accommodating with Tove?”

They weren’t, but Bjorn didn’t want to admit Askeladd was right. “No idea.”

“Liar.”

Bjorn supposed it was only natural someone like him would be able to sniff out a lie with ease. As soon as Askeladd settled himself in the largest free corner of the cart, draping his arm over the side, Bjorn gave Arni’s rump a pat. She brayed softly and set forward with a lurch, the rickety wheels jostling over the packed dirt road.

Bjorn didn’t usually look back when he set out on these trips, but something nagged at him, pulled at his principled stand. Rather than brood in his loft, Rorik stood in the doorway, watching them leave. They were already too far to make out his expression, but for some reason Bjorn felt it was absent its usual acrimony.

The sun had begun its ascent across the sky, hovering above the horizon just enough for streams of light to spill through the gaps in the trees. Sunlight dappled the changing leaves: red to russet, yellow to gold. Arní kept a steady pace, bearing a load that might have exhausted a lesser animal. As if summoned, she let out a mighty huff, apparently deciding now was her chance; she drew the cart forward with such a mighty heave, that Askeladd almost pitched off the side. Bjorn turned away from their antics, to better conceal his expression. He couldn’t have anyone noticing.

But he had to admit; Aside from the suddenly recalcitrant beast and Askeladd’s pointed glare, this was nice. Perhaps they contributed more to the sense of peace than he initially assumed. Day had already broken; it only took him to the edge of the forest before his chest was drenched with sweat. Bjorn took off his cloak and draped it over the side of the cart, enjoying the warmth of the sun beating down on the back of his neck. Behind him, Askeladd was humming something, and half the forest over another creature answered the cry, searching in vain. Watching Askeladd’s shoulders sway with each bump in the road, it struck him how bizarre everything had become ever since Askeladd showed up; things he always took for granted were suddenly so interesting and remarkable, not even close to common knowledge.

“How long until _Haithabu,_ again?” Askeladd called over to him.

“Few days, probably. The weather’s nice so the road won’t be too bad.”

“Nice for now, anyway.”

“Are you trying to call down something worse?”

Askeladd grinned cheekily. “Just being my pleasant old self.” 

They were nearly an hour south from his home when the knot between his shoulders loosened, if only slightly. Yet frustration still edged his nerves; he was irritated with his wavering, how difficult it was to maintain the clarity of purpose he’d tasted so briefly. 

He wanted to bury his face in his hands, he wanted to hide. _Why is this so hard?_ Instead, he set his jaw and steeled his nerve. He would tell Askeladd, right this moment. Once he told someone, there would be no going back, as he couldn’t change his mind and remain where he was without looking like a vacillating weakling.

“Listen,” Bjorn said, ridiculously nervous, his heart lurching to his throat. “I think I’m gonna get out of here.”

“Good,” Askeladd said immediately. “Right now?”

His eager reply took Bjorn off guard. He blinked, struggling to collect his scattered thoughts. “I – haven’t made any specific plans yet, but I figured I’d sell this crap for my father, then could go with you as far as your home while I figure it out, if you like. Since your leg is still busted and all.”

“That’d be a big help,” Askeladd said. “And you said I owe you those lessons, after all.”

“Right,” Bjorn said, tentative hope settling in his chest, like sunlight after a storm. Finally, he really allowed himself to think about it, allowed himself to want it, to feel that desperate desire he pretended didn’t exist, for to acknowledge it when there was no hope of its realization was more painful than any bruise. For once, he stepped outside the chains of obligation and imagined a future of his own making. Perhaps Tove was right; neither she nor his mother would want him to stay around here forever, keeping household and absorbing abuse. And if they felt differently, perhaps that shouldn’t matter.

For the first time that day, his unsettled mind calmed, the anxiety eased. He settled a hand on Arní’s head and faced the open road.

~

The first day of their journey passed without incident. The weather was mild, early autumn heat settling on their shoulders like a fine down, and this far away from Haithabu the road was mostly deserted, save for a pair of king’s men riding slowly past every few hours. Askeladd figured it prudent that the king should wish to keep the road clear; Haithabu was one of the most important trading centers in Denmark, with connections as far east as Miklagarðr and as far west as Iceland, and it wouldn’t do for it to be beset by raiders and outlaws whenever their fancy struck.

In the evening, after the sun had set, Bjorn guided Arní toward a likely alcove half protected by a hollow in the gently rolling hills of the country. It looked as if it had been used as a campsite in the past, perhaps even by Bjorn himself, for he seemed well familiar with the routine: he unhitched Arní from the cart and led her some distance away, tying her reins to a stake and driving into the ground before producing a bag of fodder for her to eat. While he tended to her, Askeladd saw to the fire and food. They spoke well after the sun had set and shared a meal of dried herring, bread, and hard cheese, saved from Bjorn’s efforts the previous winter. It was simple fare, but he found he enjoyed it more than any of the fine delicacies prepared at his home. Perhaps the conversation had something to do with it.

He only noticed Bjorn swaying in place after they had finished eating, staring into the flames with heavy lidded eyes; he was much more exhausted than he had let on at all today. Askeladd had only known him for a fortnight, but he was starting to get the impression this was typical.

“You sleep first,” Askeladd told him, waving off his concern before he could interrupt. “I’ve got a few hours left in me.”

Bjorn must really have been exhausted, for he didn’t bother to argue. “Alright … wake me up if anything looks suspicious.”

“I’ll give you a good kick, how’s that.”

Bjorn huffed, but a grin curved his mouth. “Whatever works.” He spread his cloak out on the ground a few paces away, rolling on his side and turning his face away from the fire. He was asleep in less than a minute, and Askeladd couldn’t help but smile at the confirmation.

The night was clear and cold. A gentle breeze rustled the tall grass around them, toying with the shape of the flames. Askeladd leaned back with hands crossed behind his head and turned his face to the sky, watching the stars. It had been so long, nearly a decade since she died, but he still remembered all the names of the constellations, and the tone of his mother’s voice as she pointed them out. “There’s the maid,” she had whispered, pointing up. “See the pail in her hands?”

 _The slave, you mean,_ he almost said, but kept his mouth shut.

“And the warrior, with his sword made of starlight. He stands ready to protect those in need.” She stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.

It was just as likely the warrior had no interest in protection. He didn’t know how she did it, how she could look to the sky and set her troubles aside long enough to tell hopeful stories about each of them. There was real wonder in her voice, he recalled; perhaps even pride, if she remembered he had done something similar, though he’d never held a sword in his hands before.

They never spoke about that day. But he knew she wasn’t disgusted, that she might even be pleased the blood of their ancestors imparted such a skill with no effort on his part. He never could bear to broach the subject and correct her.

Before he knew it, light edged the horizon, the greenish of an old bruise leaking into the darkness above, increasing, strengthening, until true light broke through. Dew clung to the grass, and birds called to one another, strident as life.

“Bjorn,” he said quietly, shaking his good shoulder. “Let’s get going.”

Bjorn opened his eyes, blinking blearily at him, before pushing himself upright. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he said when he noticed the dawn breaking, his expression heavy with reproach.

“I wasn’t tired.” Askeladd smirked at him. “Why are you complaining? You looked like you needed the rest. You fell asleep almost immediately.”

“ _You_ need rest too,” Bjorn said. “I’m not the one with holes in my leg.”

“Will you stop fussing? Honestly.” To make a point, he rolled to his feet as smoothly as he was able, keeping the jolt of pain out of his expression as he shifted his weight to his good leg. “Good as new.”

Bjorn snorted. “Liar.”

It should bother him more than it did that Bjorn so easily saw through his lies. If he could sense one as small as this, what more would he be able to ascertain?

They packed up the campsite and loaded the cart with the few things they’d used overnight. As Askeladd clambered back into his spot in the corner, Bjorn yanked Arní’s stake out of the ground and led her back onto the road, hitching her to the cart with sure, practiced motions. She submitted to his ministrations without any attitude, nosing at his stomach, and he rubbed the top of her head with a smile. He didn’t even have to slap her haunches to get her to lurch forward; the moment he took a step she immediately followed.

It was even hotter today than it had been yesterday; before long he was drenched in sweat from his fine cloak, and he untied it to drape over the side of the cart. The road wasn’t completely smooth, and every few moments it would jostle enough to hurt his leg, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. To distract himself, he took to wiping the dew off the carvings that Bjorn hoped to sell, careful not to scuff or scar them.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Bjorn said when he noticed Askeladd’s critical gaze, parsing the delicate details of one carving with a furrowed brow. “It’s obnoxious.”

Askeladd’s frown deepened; they were more than nice. “How is such a lousy person capable of making something like this?”

“Being a shithead should lock you out of seeing things that way,” Bjorn mused. “Maybe goodness isn’t part of the process. Just some kind of perspective.”

Askeladd held up one particularly detailed piece, its carved face grotesque, yet somehow tragic. “How does he do this with only one arm?”

Bjorn actually brightened. “He’s got this wooden prosthetic, it’s about as long as his other forearm but has a hook and four jointed digits on the end. The joints you can lock into place so he can hold whatever he’s making in a specific position. It’s pretty clever, actually.”

“Did you make it?”

Bjorn huffed a laugh. “Nah. I’m not good at stuff like that.” He paused, flipping the mule’s silken ear between his fingers. “My mother made it for him.”

Askeladd considered this in silence. So this was the source of Bjorn’s pride. Though he’d never met Bjorn’s mother, he was starting to sense the shape of the family they had been; a marriage of crafters, makers, shapers. His jealousy took him by surprise; not bitter, but wistful. “You said you make this trip often?” he said instead of commenting further.

“Every couple of months. I mostly come to sell, though. Shit’s expensive in Haithabu.”

“How do you usually pass the time, then?”

“Well, I don’t usually have a tagalong to entertain,” Bjorn said, flashing him a cheeky grin. “Most people know how to amuse themselves without help from the nearest adult.”

That this came from one nearly six years younger than him was profoundly aggravating. “If you don’t have any memorized, you can just say so,” Askeladd retorted. “There’s no need for all this blustering. I won’t tell anyone.”

Bjorn snorted, kicking a rock out of his path and watching it sail into the field of tall grass. “I usually try and practice whatever verses Tove last taught me.”

“Oho, training as a real skald!”

“It’s not official, since Tove isn’t an official skald. She’s never been commissioned anywhere.”

“Ah, but she was trained by one. Didn’t you tell me that? I’m quite sure I remember those words coming out of your mo-“

“Still,” Bjorn interrupted him. “There are some things you have to learn from an actual professional. It isn’t just saying the words, you know? There’s a specific timing. You have to make them live; you have to make everyone listening forget that they’re listening to words, because they’re so invested in the picture the words form. That’s what makes a skald. Anyone can read some runes off a stick or stone. Skalds give those dead words life.”

“Well, not anyone. Not everyone is as fortunate to have a polymath as a neighbor.”

“I don’t know that that is.”

Askeladd grinned, pleased to be the one explaining for once. “Someone who knows a lot about a lot of different subjects.”

“Well, then anyone could if they were taught how to read, or had a polymath neighbor. I’m just saying performing a verse is completely separate than reading it. Different skill entirely.”

“Are you done? I want to hear a real story now. The latest ones you’ve been working on.” 

“You sure? They’re kinda sad.”

“Sad is good. Sad is better than anything else, actually. I’ll give you ten pieces of silver if you can make me cry.”

“N-you don’t have to do –”

“What’s the problem? This is how you pay a real skald,” Askeladd said, waggling his brows. “Or are you shy all the sudden.”

As expected, Bjorn reddened to the tips of his ears. “I’m not shy! What’s your problem?”

“No, of course not, I’m terribly mistaken.”

Bjorn peered up at him, a hint of his petulant frown still twisting his mouth, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you sure you’re not gonna get bored?”

Askeladd grinned. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

He expected Bjorn to take some time conjuring up the verse, to cobble together a more assured performance, but to his surprise Bjorn launched right into a verse, as if he’d had it on the tip of his tongue all this time. He spoke:

 _“_ _It was long ago that Gudrun intended to die,  
when she sat sorrowful over Sigurd;  
she did not weep or strike her hands together,  
or lament like other women.  
  
Very wise warriors stepped forth,  
they tried to ease the fierceness of her mind;  
even so Gudrun could not weep,  
she was so impassioned, she might have burst asunder.  
  
The gleaming wives of warriors stepped forward,  
adorned with gold, they sat by Gudrun;  
each of them told of their great grief  
the bitterest which had been visited on them._

_Said Giaflaug, Giuki’s sister:  
“I know that in the world I’m most deprived of joy;  
the heavy loss of five husbands has come upon me;  
of three daughters, three sisters,  
of eight brothers, I alone live.”_

_Even so, Gudrun could not weep;  
she was so impassioned at the young man’s death  
so fierce in her mind at the fall of the prince. _

“Pretty lousy way to comfort a grieving person,” Askeladd cut in, irritated. In his estimation, poetry should transport, rather than wallow in the deficiencies of character already so evident around him. “’I can see that you’re upset, here are all the ways life has been worse for me.’ Who would be reassured by that?”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Bjorn said with a shrug. “Her morbid boasting is contrasted by Gudrun’s noble reserve. Or maybe they’re trying to get her to chime in. Easier to complain in a group.” He kicked another rock out of the path of the wheels. “It gets even worse, too.”

“Seriously?”

Bjorn nodded, smiling. He looked away and took in a long breath, as if preparing for the story, the exacting cadence of verse. His shoulders relaxed.

_“Then said Herborg, queen of the Huns’ land;  
‘I have a heavier harm to speak of:  
my seven sons, in the south-lands,  
my husband, as the eighth, all fell to slaughter;_

_‘Father and mother, four brothers,  
all, when the wind whipped the waves,  
were struck down in their ship at sea._

_‘I alone laid them out, I alone buried them,  
I alone gave them an honored grave;  
all that I suffered in one season  
thus no man could ever give me joy._

_‘Then I was taken captive, war-prize  
that same half-year it befell me;  
I had to adorn her, and tie on the shoes  
of the war-leader’s wife every morning._

_‘She raged at me in her jealousy,  
and struck me with savage blows;  
nowhere had I found a better master.  
nowhere had I found a worse mistress."_

It took Askeladd a moment to form a cogent thought out of annoyance. “What are you even supposed to say to that?” he said, incredulous.

Bjorn smiled, flicking the mule’s ear. “I think the original skald had those women go on about everything they’ve lost to encourage Gudrun. As if to say that she’s not alone there, they know what it’s like, too.”

“Why not just say that, then.”

Bjorn shrugged. “Is that something _you’d_ be able to say outright? To a grieving person.”

“Probably not.” _But not for the reason you think._ There was no one he cared enough about to comfort in such a way.

Bjorn turned over his shoulder and fixed Askeladd with a speculative look, slowing his gait until they were nearly level. “You know, if I were a real skald, I would be pretty offended by all these interruptions. It completely destroyed the rhythm.”

“Are you offended, noble skald?”

“Nah,” Bjorn said, matching pace with the mule once more. “I know what you’re doing.” He resumed his recitation before Askeladd could retort.

_“Yet, Gudrun could not weep;  
hating those who had killed her husband,  
she sat with Sigurd, her heart like stone. _

_Then said Gullrond, daughter of Giuki:  
‘Foster-mother, your wisdom fails you --  
how shall a young wife listen to such words?’  
She told them not to keep the dead prince concealed. _

_She swept off the sheet that covered Sigurd  
and placed a pillow at the young woman’s knees;  
‘Look at your beloved! Lay your lips on his,  
the way you kissed when he was still alive.’_

_Gudrun looked once at her lord;  
she saw his hair streaming with blood,  
The king’s keen eyes grown dim,  
Sigurd’s breast scored by the sword. _

_Then Gudrun knelt, leaning on the cushion;  
her hair came loose and her cheeks grew red,  
and drops like rain ran down over her cheeks. _

_Then Gudrun wept, the daughter of Guiki,  
so that her tears fell in her hair,  
and the geese in the meadow called in reply,  
the splendid birds which belonged to the girl._

_Then said Gullrond, daughter of Giuki;  
‘Yours I know was the greatest love  
of all people across all the earth;  
inside or outside, you were never happy  
unless, my sister, you were with Sigurd.” _

After a heavy silence, Bjorn chanced a glance over at him, trying to stifle the grin. “You’re not crying.”

Askeladd had been so engrossed in the story that he hadn’t even remembered his tease from before. “Too bad,” he managed with a theatrical shrug.

“Probably because you wouldn’t stop interrupting me.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think.”

“I _don’t_ think I’m good at it. Not as good as Tove, anyway. And her skald friend actually knew what she was doing. Not that I ever heard her for myself. But Tove wouldn’t lie about it.”

 _A female skald,_ Askeladd thought, but made no mention of it. “Do you know any other verses?”

“Yeah, a few. I don’t know if I should recite them for you, though.”

“Is this about the silver? I’m sorry I insulted your pride, gracious skald.”

“Pride,” Bjorn snorted derisively. “Fine. I’ll tell you another. It’s short though. I don’t remember all of it very well, so you can’t interrupt me.” This verse he took longer to prepare in his mind, his expression wrought with the intensity of his concentration.

_“Sigrun went into the barrow and said to Helgi:  
“I am so hungry to be with you again  
I feel like Odin’s hawks when they crave food  
and find warm bodies of warriors slain,  
or see day’s first light, sparkling with dew._

_“Let me kiss the lifeless king  
while you still wear your bloodstained byrnie!  
Heavy with frost is Helgi’s hair,  
over his face, red rain has fallen,  
icy and wet are my husband’s hands --  
what can I do, prince, to ease your pain?” _

_Helgi said:  
“You alone, Sigrun of Seafells  
steep Helgi’s shroud in the dew of sorrow.  
My sun-bright lady, the bitter tears  
you shed each night before you sleep  
are drops of blood falling on my breast,  
cold as rain, heavy with your heart’s grief. _

_“We’ll fill our cups with costly wine,  
though lost forever are life and lands.  
Let no man utter mournful dirges,  
though my breast lies open from a mortal blow;  
for now my bride has come to the barrow,  
now a shield-maid comforts the slain.” _

This was even sadder than the first, though in this case the lovers were able to speak once again, unlike the unfortunate Gudrun. How desperate and hollow Sigrun must have been, to beseech a grave; how bittersweet, for its occupant to respond.

“Court verse is easier,” Bjorn was saying, perhaps to fill the silence. “The meter is specific, everything has to fit. These longer verses are harder for me to remember because the rhythm of the meter is less exact. Normally you just have to learn them by listening to it over and over. But we don’t get skalds around here very often.”

“How do you remember it so well then?”

Bjorn grinned. “Tove has a lot of them memorized. And she has some of the long form ones on vellum somewhere. The runes aren’t all in her handwriting, either.”

Askeladd couldn’t help his silence this time. Bjorn was right; there was an exact process to this, an art to the way the words slotted together, as if they had always fit. That secret of verse, the weight of the words, the spaces between them. The flow only seemed natural due to fervently nurtured skill. How many times had he murmured these stanzas to himself, measuring the time between each word, the pitch of his rising and falling to emphasize or appeal, as the work demanded.

“Well, there you have it,” Bjorn said, suddenly sheepish; perhaps unbalanced by Askeladd’s reverie. “That’s pretty much all I remember.” 

“I think you’re lying to me.”

“Whyever would I do something like that.”

It was around midday when Askeladd finally caught sight of the city in the distance, and the massive embankment jutting out of its south facing wall. This was the famous Danevirke, a mighty dike stretching across the rest of the peninsula, protecting Jutland from its southerly enemies. Only a real army could have made a real attempt, and even then they were almost certainly doomed to fail, if the villages in the area were as skilled as Bjorn’s.

Bjorn pointed some distance away, at two figures atop a palisade. “The king still has some of his men on the ramparts, even though the Franks haven’t posed a real threat for a hundred years.”

“Prudent.”

“Yeah. This place brings in a lot of silver, wouldn’t be very smart to let it fall into someone else’s hands.”

They were within shouting distance of the guards outside the walls when Bjorn halted in place, grabbing at Arní’s harness before rummaging desperately through his pack, but his search was apparently in vain, judging by his thunderstruck dismay. _“Fuck!”_ he cried.

Askeladd started, nearly jolting out of the cart. “What’s wrong?!”

“I forgot it! The fucking – the entire reason I wanted to come out here. To sell this shit. _Fuck!”_

“What shit?”

Bjorn rubbed at his forehead, as if to massage his mind into function. “The hemlock concentrate. It’s difficult and dangerous to prepare, so I can usually sell it for a good amount of silver.” He shook his head in disgust. “Not this time, though.”

“Did you forget everything, then?”

“No, I have the other things I prepared. I hid the hemlock separately, because it’s fucking dangerous.”

“Calm down. You can sell it somewhere else, probably.”

“Yeah, but I won’t have enough for a sword now. That’s the whole reason I wanted to come out here, Haithabu's smiths are some of the best.”

“The smith at my holdfast knows his business well enough.”

But Bjorn didn’t look convinced, which irritated Askeladd more than he wanted to admit; he knew he was an inveterate liar, and that it was prudent for Bjorn not to trust his word, but that didn’t account for the odd, nagging desire that he would.

When they approached the city gates, the guard on the left hailed Bjorn as if they were old friends. “Was wondering if you’d come along before the winter,” he called amiably.

“Got shit to sell. Thought I’d squeeze in one last trip.”

“You picked a good day for it,” the guard replied. “Some Rus merchants just came in from the east.” He signaled to the guard on the other side of the gate, and with a mighty heave, they wrenched open the gates of Haithabu. Bjorn offered a polite nod, but said no more, pushing into the main thoroughfare of the town, cutting through ripened fields before leading to the town proper.

Askeladd couldn’t help the teasing grin. “So do you know everyone around here?”

“Of course not. Come on. It’s not that strange for the guard to know who you are, if you’re coming and going every few months.”

“Yes, you’re right. Of course.”

Bjorn shot him a nasty look over his shoulder before striding ahead, tugging gently on Arní’s harness. The mule followed obligingly.

Askeladd was no stranger to larger towns. He had been to Jelling many times, where the king kept his wife and household; the first time he had come with his father, who was on speaking terms with Sweyn and the members of his hird. (The man had wanted to show off his new pet, Askeladd surmised, and his hatred had simmered for years before he had acted upon it). But Haithabu was a different beast altogether; whereas Jelling was nearly quiet, the guards and citizens careful to keep their voices down and conduct agreeable so close under the sight of the king, Haithabu bustled with color and life, a thousand strident conversations in a half dozen languages humming through the air, and above it the cry of gulls circling the harbor. Unlike the hodgepodge alleys of more poorly planned towns, Haithabu's streets were lined into an orderly grid, homes on the outer rings, the markets and shops closer to the water. It wouldn’t take anyone long at all to remember where everything was.

The market was almost beyond belief; it was no wonder that the king should be so anxious about its protection. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and spice, all the more potent without a breeze to carry it away. Silks and silver from the east, furs and ivory from the north, slaves from the west, more shops and craftworks and merchants than Askeladd had ever seen in one market; all vying for the attention of every passerby, keen on the contents of his purse. The din was not unlike a battle.

Bjorn was unfazed by the chaos. He weaved through the press of the crowd as if he had done so a thousand times, as if he perhaps lived here. But his memory was good; he probably had the place figured out by the third time he’d come. For Rorik’s carvings, Bjorn led them to a brewhouse near the north wall, well away from the hubbub and tied Arní’s harness to a post outside. “This won’t take long,” he assured Askeladd.

And it didn’t; there was barely audible wheedling from inside, the skeptical tones of the master of the house, Bjorn’s appealing replies. Askeladd wondered if he would be turned away, frowning at the thought of what punishment would await such a failure, when Bjorn and the master of the house exited together. “Don’t get up,” Bjorn said as Askeladd made to stand and help. “There isn’t that much.” He tucked two swaddled carvings under his arm and strode back inside, the master loading up a precarious armful and hurrying after him.

When Bjorn emerged from the brewhouse again, he was alone. He unwound Arní’s harness and gave it a gentle tug forward; the cart jolted as she took a first step, braying her displeasure.

“Don’t be a baby,” he chastised her. “Most of the weight is gone now.” He saw Askeladd’s speculative look and rushed to explain: “It’s a side business. Travelers come through for some mead and see all the nice carvings, furniture, game boards, whatever, so they buy them up. The style is different than they’ve seen, and these kinda merchants are all about the image of being widely traveled. So then it’s good for them to come home with ‘exotic’ things, that no one local might ever see. Drives up the price of their goods, if they can make them sound especially rare.”

It made sense. “That’s how you unload them all so fast.”

“I don’t really like spending a long time here. For one thing, I don’t have any silver to spare for a room. For another, he --” Bjorn fell silent, shaking his head. “He’s in a better mood if I don’t take forever.”

“I see.”

“And him being in a good mood is kinda important to my plans, here.”

“That’s smart. That, and this little deal you have set up.”

Bjorn shrugged, though before he turned his face away Askeladd caught sight of his pleased expression. “I guess.”

Their last stop was on the other side of the town, a slanted hut with a mismatched roof, the thatch made of many different fibers. Bjorn didn’t even have to knock or call for its occupant; the moment they stopped in front of the door, a young woman stepped outside, wiping her hands on a filthy cloth before tucking it back into her belt. “Bjorn.”

“Evening, Helka. Is Solveig in?”

“She’s gone west for the week,” Helka explained. “Some sickness broke out on the coast.” As Bjorn rummaged around his pack for the compounds he wanted to trade, the tiny woman fixed Bjorn with a critical gaze. “Your face is green.”

He looked up in surprise. “What?”

“Your cheek. There’s an old bruise. Do you want something for it? I’ve just made –”

“Don’t waste that stuff on an old bruise,” Bjorn said incredulously, ducking away from her hand. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not a waste; it’s exactly what I made it for. To treat bruises.”

“It is a waste for one that’s almost gone. I don’t even feel it anymore.” He scowled. “I came here to trade, not to get lectured and fussed over.” Before she could retort, he produced a handful of clay vials, a dozen sprigs of herbs bound together with twine, and a pouch of mushrooms. She tucked them into the various pockets of her skirt and apron, before counting out quartered silver coins.

“I don’t suppose you’ll finally tell me where you found these,” she smirked as she shook the pouch a little, as if she expected the same answer as always. Askeladd felt an unwelcome surge of irritation, suspicious that she was flaunting their many years of acquaintance, and it annoyed him.

Bjorn shrugged, his expression uneasy. “The forest north of my house. I mean, where else? There aren’t that many forests around.”

The smug little grin slipped away; she gaped at him in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yeah. Listen,” he said, his tone uncomfortable. “It’s gonna be awhile before I’m back here.”

“You don’t normally stay away the whole winter.”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m leaving.”

She blinked. “Leaving ... where?”

“I – dunno. Was gonna go north and find some expedition. That’s about as far as I got.”

The woman named Helka struggled for a reply. “You’re going to leave Tove like this without a real plan? What’s wrong with you? Who’s going to help her around your village now.”

“She’s the one who wants me to leave the most. Been on my back about it for years, actually. She’s practically kicking me out the door. And she has other students, you know.” 

Helka dismissed their accumulated years of diligent study with a wave of her hand. “Some things you can practice for a thousand years and never get right, not if you don’t have the feel for it already. The truth of it imprinted onto your bones. It’s very rare. It’s an insult to the gods to waste what skill they give you.”

“Whoa, whoa, who said anything about giving it up?” He held up his hands as if to ward away the accusation. “I _just_ said I was leaving. I’ll still be making things, even if you don’t get to benefit directly from it anymore. Or was that the actual problem.”

“You’re rotten.”

“Yep.”

“And stupid. You’re making a big mistake.”

He smirked down at her. “ _Not all men  
_ _are matched in wisdom  
_ _the imperfect are easy to find.”_

“Will you stop?” Only then did she seem to notice Askeladd. Her already unfriendly demeanor curdled into distrust. “Who is this?” she demanded, nodding over at him, her eyes hard.

Askeladd couldn’t help himself. He draped his arm around Bjorn’s shoulders, leaning close and leering at her as obnoxiously as he was capable. “I’m his _patient_ ,” he said, failing to contain his smugness; he could take a reasonable guess at the source of this woman’s irritation. “And he’s been so attentive, too.”

But the barb missed its mark. She considered him for a moment, tapping her chin. “It’s your leg, right? How were you injured?” she asked him, suddenly businesslike; the quandary of a serious wound overriding her annoyance.

“Some bandits got him.”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Askeladd said, a little annoyed; no mere bandit could cut him down.

Bjorn smirked at him, being obnoxious on purpose. “There was a band of outlaws that attacked our village about a fortnight ago,” he said casually. “A group broke off and attacked us while we were walking back to my house. They didn’t come your way first?”

“A fortnight ago?” Her brow furrowed in thought. “We saw some unfamiliar ships at the mouth of the fjord, but they kept their distance. Probably didn’t want to try such a big target,” she reasoned. “Even though it would have been a bigger reward.”

“Mm. There was only about thirty of them, not enough to take a town this size.”

Askeladd marveled at their conversational tone, nearly bored, as if such an attack were no more interesting or uncommon than a passing storm. Perhaps for them it was.

“All the men in your village had just come back from viking too, right?” she wondered.

“Right. Pretty badly planned.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’m glad you weren’t alone this time.”

Askeladd studied Bjorn as he shifted uneasily in place _. This time_? “I wasn’t alone the last time either,” Bjorn muttered.

“You might as well have been.”

He let out a testy breath. “Anyway. Goodbye, Helka.”

 _“_ Wait, wait!” She held out a hand. “You didn’t bring any hemlock with you?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, disgusted with himself. “I forgot it. I had some made and everything. Too much was going on, I guess.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll have some the next time I’m around, whenever that is.”

She said nothing for a moment, her frown etching lines at the corners of her mouth, before turning quickly on her heel and ducking back inside. Bjorn watched her go with a quizzical look, but she was back before he could formulate an answer for himself. Without a word, she pressed a small pouch into his hands, the contents within clinking softly.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” she said with a curt nod. “Goodbye, then.” Before Bjorn could think to reply, she had disappeared within dark recesses of the shop, and slammed the door shut behind her, completely beyond earshot.

Bjorn looked at him, his expression wrought with dismay. “I can’t accept this.”

“Come on. Don’t be stupid.”

“I didn’t do anything to earn it. I was just complaining.”

“You probably did, actually. You’re being compensated for the pleasure of your company.”

Bjorn’s jaw set stubbornly, and he rolled his eyes. “That’s not worth anything.”

“Obviously, she would disagree with you.”

“How would you even get that idea?”

“Come on. Don’t tell you never noticed the batted eyelashes. Or how upset she was when she said you were leaving.”

Bjorn shook his head incredulously. “She’s upset because I make something expensive and dangerous that she and her mentor can turn around for a neat profit, or use to make something even more valuable.”

“Hm, I don’t think that’s it. It’s very adorable for you to argue, though.”

He was still frowning at the pouch. “Now I really can’t accept this.”

“Stop being ridiculous. You can’t buy a sword with principles.”

“I’m not being principled,” Bjorn retorted. “And this isn’t enough for any decent steel. Never mind.”

It took Askeladd a moment to realize it was the pity implicit in the gesture that Bjorn couldn’t tolerate. He’d gotten upset and fled after he’d told Askeladd about his mother, when Askeladd had been unable to maintain his disinterested expression. He was usually much better at such a performance.

“Why do you like to antagonize people so much, anyway?” Bjorn asked him, interrupting his speculation. “She didn’t do anything to you.”

“I like to give obnoxious people what they deserve.”

“She’s not more obnoxious than some people I know.” 

Now he was really irritated. “How gallant, for you to rush to her defense.”

Bjorn smirked up at him as if he heard the truth in his tone, unconvinced by any mask of an expression. “I’m not defending her, just making an observation. What are you so annoyed about? I didn’t say ‘you’, did I?”

“She’s right, you are rotten.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“You really never noticed this woman wanted you?”

That wiped the grin off his face. “I told you, it’s not like that.”

“Maybe she likes you because you can make rare and dangerous things, did you think about that?”

“Hm … now I _am_ saying you’re being obnoxious.”

“Why try to hurt my feelings over just a few questions.”

“Obnoxious questions. What does it matter? Even if it were true, it wouldn’t change anything.”

“Really.”

“Of course not.” He refused to elaborate, though, and Askeladd couldn’t press further without betraying more of himself. The attention of women unsettled and annoyed him in general; he wondered if Bjorn felt similarly, or if his disinterest was specific. The longer the silence lingered, the more desperately he wanted to know; if there was someone like himself in this world, someone who would understand, if he ever bothered to put it into words.

“I’m going to tell Rorik I’m leaving,” Bjorn said when they reached the gates of Haithabu, this time with the town to their backs. The sun hovered just above the horizon, as if hesitating to sink into darkness and end the day, these last days before winter. “I’m not going to sneak away in the middle of the night like some thief.”

“It’s not as if he deserves the warning,” Askeladd pointed out equitably.

“This isn’t about what he deserves,” Bjorn said firmly. “Winter is nearly here. I should give him some time to prepare. Also, it might make this whole thing easier for him to accept if I help some first.”

“Then you wouldn’t want to stay until the spring?”

“Well … after he’s set up, what’s the point? Should probably spend that time finding an expedition that’ll have me.”

“That won’t be too hard.” Askeladd couldn’t help the grin; devoid of its sarcastic edge, for once completely, so intimately genuine.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blame the usual enabler suspects for this softe shite

On their return journey, the road became chill, as if the thousand burning lanterns and torches of Haithabu drew warmth from the world outside, sapping all surrounding luminescence to hoard for itself, an island of light in a the thick of a void. He and Bjorn plunged more deeply down the road, nearly black but for the gaze of the stars above. That first night, a cover of thick-bottomed stormclouds stretched over the sky, and there they remained for the rest of the trek.

Unlike the easy silence of the journey, the return trip was menaced by the threat of a cold rain, and wrought with an altogether different sort of quiet; not the savor of an agreeable companion, but the anticipation for unpleasantness in the near future. 

He watched Bjorn lead the cart with increasing inexplicable concern. He’d done a lot of walking the last four days, and not very much sleeping in the meantime. Who knew how well his wounded shoulder was doing; he refused to let Askeladd look at it, downplaying it to a ridiculous degree. Just like him, Askeladd fumed, though he didn’t really know, yet. But it was more than a lucky guess; there just hadn’t been enough time to turn it into insight.

It was only when he recognized the last stretch of road, a shabby copse of trees in a hollow they’d passed the morning they first set out, that he’d decided to broach the tender subject. Only a few gentle hills remained before them. “Practicing the argument?” he wondered, noting Bjorn’s brow slung low, his gaze far away.

Bjorn scrubbed at the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter what I say, I’ll end up getting beat for it,” he said distractedly. 

“So why are you telling him, again?” 

Bjorn sighed. “Don’t be troublesome.” 

“Well, that’s nice. What a fine way to treat my concern.”

Bjorn looked over at him, rubbing the top of the mule’s head. “Are you really concerned?”

Askeladd only noticed his misstep too late, after Bjorn was confronting him about it; he scrambled for a likely dismissal. “I’m not. It’s a figure of speech."

“Hm.”

Askeladd turned away from him, watching the light play on the fading blades of grass. It irritated him when Bjorn masked his thoughts, especially with monosyllabic buffer sounds, leaving Askeladd to puzzle out what that wrinkled brow meant, that downcast glance, the meaning in each pause, each breath. He had never so desperately wanted to read someone’s mind. 

That was annoying, too. 

They had no sooner rounded the last corner of the road to Bjorn’s home when he set to work, first unhitching the mule so she wouldn’t make a break for it without her harness holding her back. As he led her off to the byre, Askeladd eased himself carefully out the back, rolling to his feet with an experimental stretch. His leg was still fairly sore, especially when we put weight on it too long or tried to do anything requiring dexterity, but it was almost well enough for daily life. Now that the prospect of its healing didn’t portend his separation from this interesting person, he was more inclined to feel fondly about it. He’d even admired the neatness of the stitches when he'd had a moment alone. 

Rorik wasn’t inside, but there was a healthy fire blazing away in the firepit, and a stack of fresh logs piled up beside the doorway; the room thick with the scent of fresh cut pine and smoke. “Good thing your father was thinking ahead,” Askeladd said, plopping down as close to the firepit as he could without singing his eyebrows. The last day had been a lot colder than either of them had been prepared for; all he had brought south with him was a late summer cloak, a spare gambeson and the sword on his waist. He’d left his heirloom armor with his brother’s ships, for reasons he was beginning to reconsider. At the moment he hadn’t cared for his safety, it hadn’t mattered – nothing had mattered to him anymore. It made a likely target when travelling alone, and he didn’t want to bother with the attention, but he couldn’t deny in hindsight that the extra protection would have been useful. That he suddenly felt the need for it unsettled him. 

“He probably wasn’t expecting us back today.” The prospect did not seem to encourage Bjorn, going by the deepening furrow between his brows. He drifted to his worktable and dropped to his knees, rummaging behind the wall for something Askeladd couldn’t see; his features were taut with anxiety until he found what he was looking for, when he visibly sagged with relief.

Askeladd cast about for a likely subject, inexplicably disturbed by Bjorn’s crumbling mood. “Think about work tomorrow,” he interjected, trying to get him to lighten up; he couldn’t stand this mood. “Then you don’t have to think about it ever again.”

“It’ll probably take me more than that to get things settled,” Bjorn pointed out reasonably. “So I have to think about it for a few more days, at least. Not more than a week, though.”

“And then, after that, you don’t. Though you have to sleep one whole night before you start your preparations,” Askeladd reproached. He couldn’t help himself; Bjorn’s edgy affect had rubbed off on him. “You look dead on your feet.”

“Well, geez. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you or anything,” Bjorn said, shaking his head. “Has sitting on your ass for a fortnight been too taxing to your delicate constitution?”

“Deflecting isn’t going to save you now. No matter how many snipes you make at me, you still have to get some rest.” He affected an imperious tone. “I will not have my guard keeling over on the road, leaving my wounded person undefended.”

“Am I your guard, now?”

“You’re a menace.”

Bjorn just grinned at him, which should have been more insufferable than it was, but it registered as a small victory instead. He wasn’t so sunk in his anxiety to be beyond encouragement, or a dumb joke. 

The sound of steps tromping up the back path shattered the moment; Bjorn’s grin died before Askeladd had even connected the disturbance to its source. He leapt to his feet and hurried across the room, slipping beyond the threshold and out of earshot without another word. 

They spoke for nearly a half hour, in voices too quiet to make out. The tone was calm at first, Rorik’s measured replies to Bjorn’s report as silver changed hands, but soon the conversation changed; Bjorn’s pleading, entreating, turned aside by a wall of his father’s stony silence. He didn’t hear Rorik leave, but when Bjorn stepped back into the room, he was alone and the space behind him was empty. His face was nearly bloodless, his eyes pitted wide in the dark. “He didn’t beat me at all,” he whispered as he knelt unsteadily by the firepit. “He didn’t even say anything.” 

And Askeladd burned with sudden anger, as realization of the kind of life Bjorn lived overtook him; how accustomed was he to pain if the absence of violence rattled him so much, enough to forget a lie or a joke? Anything unknown was a risk; anything that stepped beyond established character, no matter how benign. He knew that well. 

~

“Think he’ll stay away the rest of the night,” Bjorn said quietly, rummaging around for some dried meat and hard cheese. He saw with some surprise that there were fresh cuts of rabbit and squirrel, and even a turkey strung upside down in the corner; his father had visited their traps over the last few days. “I gotta get the winter furs down tomorrow. Maybe trade some of our wool down in the village one more time …”

“Do you think this another day’s long excursion for him, or something like that?”

“Nah. I doubt he went far; his sword is still here.” But unease chewed a hole in his gut, hopelessly tangling his thoughts. He had been stupid again; he shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he thought the honest disclosure might have improved the situation. More stupid hopes, ridiculous fantasies; he knew who his father was, how his character emerged under pressure and in deprivation. Perhaps he hoped to distract from the truth with a small piece of it. He fretted over how he’d be punished for this latest lapse before remembering he wouldn’t be around to punish before long. He was so upset that the prospect didn’t encourage him at all. 

“Come on, won’t you sit by the fire?” Askeladd said, beckoning him over. “It’s making me cold just looking at you.” 

“Wouldn’t want that.” _Why should my comfort matter to you?_ As he gathered up their small dinner into his arms and wedged a small cask of mead against his hip, he told himself Askeladd was just making conversation; he didn’t know Askeladd well enough to judge his general comfort with silence. 

“Sorry this is a few days old,” he said as he sat, passing a hank of bread into Askeladd’s open hands before reaching over to pour him a horn of mead. “I’ll make some more tomorrow.” 

“Are you trying to poison me with rotten scraps,” Askeladd teased. 

“Don’t be ungrateful. You won’t have to go without your fancy fare much longer.” 

“What fancy fare is this?” 

“I’m assuming a jarl’s kin eats better than this.” 

“It’s a fair assumption. Though you don’t know how rich my family is; we could hold just a spur of land, and command the allegiance of fewer than twenty men. Not much more than your village chief, perhaps.” 

“Is that how it is for your family, then?” 

“No,” Askeladd said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Not quite.” 

Bjorn’s lips twitched; Askeladd clearly wasn’t happy unless he was messing with someone. 

“So, is Tove really shoving you down the road here,” Askeladd asked before he could think of a retort, scraping at the crust of bread with his thumbs. Flakes of it collected on the top of his boots like drifting snow. “That suggests unwillingness.” 

“Nah, it’s not really like that,” Bjorn said with some surprise; he hadn’t realized Askeladd had been paying attention to his attempts at deflecting Helka’s annoying lectures. “Not completely. It’s more like … if you let yourself think about something you want but you’ll probably never have, you’re just picking at a scab. It’ll never heal over right. And,” he added after a moment, scratching behind his ear, “I guess I never really knew where to start.”

“Not with the men in your village?” 

Bjorn shrugged, uncomfortable. Those men knew his father as well as any neighbor could, and Bjorn felt their silent judgment like scalding heat on his skin. Their pity chafed him raw. Defending the village with them for an afternoon was awkward enough; he couldn’t imagine an entire season of viking in such conditions. It would either lessen their opinion of his father or deepen their pity toward him, and neither was acceptable. “It’s good of you to let me come along on your way north,” he mumbled instead. He couldn’t help but expect the offer to be rescinded at any moment.

“I thought you were the one doing me a favor. What happens if my wounds start to fester again?” 

“They probably wouldn’t if you kept them clean and dry."

“You know that for certain? A properly treated wound never went bad, no matter what you did?” 

Bjorn rubbed at his neck again. “Not never, I guess. I don’t know that much for certain.” 

“Now you’re being ridiculous. You just spent the last fortnight pontificating on every subject you’re familiar with.”

“What, do you just expect me to ignore your questions?” His mouth quirked stubbornly, feeling strangely wounded. He knew the comment shouldn’t bother him, but his cheeks burned; he’d confused Askeladd’s idle inquiries for genuine interest. “Why bother asking questions if you don’t care about the answers.” 

Askeladd’s smile lacked its earlier bite. “Did I say that I didn’t?” he said as he poured himself another horn of mead.

Toying with him, again. Bjorn scowled. “Obnoxious pedant.” 

“Oversensitive hypocrite. You’re assuming ill intentions.” 

That was true, and unfair of him; Askeladd himself had given him no reason to be so suspicious or negative. His distress bled over into everything, turned an innocuous comment into a pointed jab. He had to remember that not every hand was clenched into a fist. “You’re right … I’m sorry.” 

Askeladd wasn’t distracted by his mood or the apology; his face was intent, eyes bright with something Bjorn didn’t recognize. “So you decided not to go off on your own, for her sake?” 

“No, not that, just …” Bjorn ran a hand over his face and looked over his shoulder, though he knew the house was otherwise empty. _“I feel sorry for him,”_ he said in an appalled whisper. “It’s not like we got a lot of animals to keep or land to work, but it’ll definitely be harder for him to do it alone than it would be for anyone else. Especially since he’s barely been doing any of it for the last decade.” Bjorn frowned. “I don’t think he even knows how to do most of this crap in the first place.” 

“He could get a slave. Or find another wife. Enlist some neighbors. There are a lot of farms and holdfasts in this area, probably because it’s so close to Haithabu, he could find some work with them.” 

Bjorn shrugged miserably. “Slaves are expensive, hard to persuade someone to be his wife. Neighbors hate him. As for the town, what does he have to entice anyone here? You have to walk at least an hour to get anywhere decent to look at.” 

“When you put it like that…” 

“So. I should give him a break. Someone should. Maybe it’ll make this easier to deal with.” 

Askeladd took a careful sip of mead, watching him from over the rim of the horn. “It’s interesting you feel that way.” 

“You mean even after getting tanned all the time?”

Askeladd’s expression was so unamused that Bjorn nearly laughed aloud. Now that they’d spent a fortnight in each other’s company nearly every waking moment, Bjorn was starting to realize he wasn’t nearly as difficult to read as he tried to be, especially not when surprised.

“I don’t have to feel any which way about something for it to be true,” Bjorn said with another shrug. “A break should help. And I’d think the same if he weren’t beating me. I’d probably feel worse about it, honestly. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to leave at all.” 

Askeladd grinned again, a flash of teeth in the gloom. “If it were me, I’d leave in the middle of the night, and I’d take anything good on my way out, too. Screw the bastard.” 

Bjorn said nothing, staring at his upturned hands. His thoughts were snarled, miserable tangles he couldn’t smooth. It was all more mixed-up than it had any right to be. If he were smart he would put this in a box in his mind and leave it behind, but he couldn’t make himself forget that there had been a time when his father didn’t hate his guts, and part of him had always wondered if that regard would ever come back. It wouldn’t matter if necessity were its true motivation, facilitating an easier life in the midst of leanness and loss. It wouldn’t have mattered at all. 

Leaving was letting go of that sickly hope. Instead, he said, “There’s nothing worth taking here.” 

“You’d know better than I would.”

Despite himself, Bjorn couldn’t help a smile. “Unless you snooped around when I wasn’t looking.”

“When aren’t you looking?”

Bjorn snorted and took a swig of his mead, to avoid answering the question. It dismayed him to realize he was being so obvious; for the last few weeks he had made a sincere effort at obscuring his interest, the strident curiosity that nearly consumed him every time his guest offered the slightest bit of information about himself. It would be so natural to press him further, the better to finally discover what was buried beneath those smirking deflections. “How far north is your home?” he asked instead.

“Not that far. Shouldn’t take us more than a week to get there; normally, it would take about half that, but I’m allowing for my leg and the weather.” 

For the rest of the meal, Bjorn offered him benign questions about his home, the kind of people that lived there, how the jarl preferred to organize his farms and towns. According to Askeladd, his family was responsible for one-hundred fifteen households, on a fertile stretch of the west coast. About half of the kin groups lived in the family holdfast – “It’s a little like Haithabu, actually,” Asdkeladd said with a grin. “Though much smaller.” The rest lived on their own farms in the surrounding areas, managing their fields and preparing for the spring, when the sowing season began. Most of the farms produced barley and oats, some were even lucky (or stubborn) enough to cultivate wheat and flax. Even further north was a small market town that nevertheless had delicacies like salt to trade, luxuries that Askeladd’s kin clearly had the largess for. His uncle made a circuit every few weeks or so to pass out favors won from plunder, and to receive tax for the use of his land and resources. When they weren’t amusing each other with games, music, and verse – boastful and brash, a litany of deeds that would echo down the ages – they were preparing for their next expedition in the spring. Askeladd said he didn’t know what his uncle and brother might have in mind for this year, but no matter what it was, it would serve their purposes well enough. It was something, in another place; that was really all it had to be.

The more Askeladd spoke, the more his world seemed to Bjorn to be like a golden hall of the gods, a place overflowing with hearty food and the strident voices of warriors, jesting, draping their bawdy insults in clever verse. It was a world out of Tove’s stories, where none went hungry, where pain had a purpose and reward; the fight was what made the feast afterward so good. 

“So there you have it; my kingdom, such as it is,” Askeladd said, sweeping his arm out. “Have I changed your mind?”

“Of course not,” Bjorn said, uneasy. There had been nothing wrong with Askelaadd’s recitation; it had run long, but Bjorn liked listening to him talk. He didn’t understand why such a beautiful place would sound so grudging and ironic from Askeladd’s mouth. It came to him after he snagged another small cask of mead and topped his horn off; there was something wrong with the place beneath the image Askeladd wrought, regardless. Some rot beneath the beauty. 

_Has this place done something to you?_ The thought came unbidden, and it annoyed him the longer it lingered. Askeladd would hate the question, and perhaps not choose to answer anything else for the rest of the night, (or the rest of the time they’d be together!), and that horrible prospect was enough to keep Bjorn’s silence. 

“Well, you look like you’ve changed your mind,” Askeladd said coolly, the ironic edge was gone from his voice, replaced by – hurt! Bjorn couldn’t speak. It was so incongruous that it took him a moment to cobble together his thoughts into something coherent; he wasn’t accustomed to his behavior affecting anyone, let alone to this degree. Let alone this person. 

“I haven’t! At all! I’m just trying to imagine what it looks like.” Technically true, though it wasn’t the main subject of focus. “I bet everyone’s mostly done with the harvest at your place by now, right?”

“Barring any sort of disaster on their way back from viking, I’m sure of it. We had a few good hot days last week, so most of them probably took advantage. Make hay while the sun shines, and all.”

“Tove says an intense summer always means harsh winter is on its heels.”

“So it’s good we’ll be leaving soon,” Askeladd said. “I don’t fancy a walk a week north through a snowstorm, or freezing rain.”

“Careful you don’t call it down on us.” The words were teasing, but his heart wasn’t in them; Bjorn stared into the fire, heartsick. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had made a fatal mistake; dread sat heavy in his chest, made each breath a trial. He was so stupid. Askeladd was right; he should have just left without saying a word. Then only Rorik would have to deal with the fallout. Bjorn wondered if he’d bother cleaning up the things he broke in his rages, now that no one else was around to do it for him. 

Ah … and that was all he had to think about, before he once again grimly resigned himself to these last days of work. He could do it; he could keep this household better than he ever had, with the hope of freedom guiding him on. There was an end to this drudgery, a life of his own beckoning. He just had to remember that. 

When he finished the last of his mead and put his horn aside, he realized Askeladd had been studying him, perhaps this entire time. A rush of heat flooded Bjorn’s cheeks, and he shrank back a little; the scrutiny in those icy eyes unbalanced him. (That color alone would have given him pause). Askeladd wore an expression he didn’t understand; intent, conflicted, almost angry, but somehow not at him. He drained his mead and tossed the horn aside, where it clattered into the sod a few paces away. 

What is it?” Askeladd demanded. “Why are you still so troubled?”

He was owed the truth, for how troublesome Bjorn was being. “I messed up. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I don’t know what I was thinking … maybe that things could be nicer again, that if I found the right approach …” Bjorn looked away, coloring deeply. “It’s not important, Askeladd. I’ll make this work one way or another. I have before.”

Askeladd stared at him for a long time, his gaze so shrewd and intense that Bjorn couldn’t breathe; he was transfixed to his seat, unable to move, not even to blink.

“Askeladd –?”

“My father took me on a journey to one of his oldest allies, a chieftain of the ‘North Way’. A place folded into the fjord, where daylight lasted for weeks. He took me, and not any of my elder brothers, on a task one brings his heir.” 

Bjorn kept the surprise from his expression as best he could, sensing strident interest would drive away this rare honest mood. Or what he assumed was honesty; it had the tone, he reasoned, absent of Askeladd’s usual ironic distance. “How many brothers do you have?” He’d wanted to know about Askeladd’s family practically since they first met, but hadn’t wanted to pry at an unwilling subject. 

“Then, I had three.” A small smile curved his lips, edged with something Bjorn didn’t recognize. “Only one, now.” 

That only increased Bjorn’s curiosity, _(what happened to the others?)_ but he said nothing, keeping his expression neutral, politely interested, nothing more. 

_Though it was so unnatural …_

“My father’s friend wasn’t Norse; he was from some tribe that lived on the taiga. They were usually allies with the Lapps but sometimes fights broke out over resources. You know how it is. I didn’t understand how it was possible he made such a friend; we don’t always have such peaceful relations with the northern tribes, and my father was … anyway, they greeted each other like long lost brothers. Fond embrace, shoulder slaps, you know. It had been over a decade since they’d last seen each other, and it was still like no time had passed between them. They just picked right up where they’d left off.” 

“Wonder how they met in the first place. Did he ever say?” 

“No. It was bizarre. He even spoke their language. The moment he opened his mouth, his friend started laughing and called out something in reply, and my father told me he was making fun of his terrible accent. But I couldn’t tell the difference. The whole time I was there, they sounded the same."

_Raised together, maybe? Definitely fought together._

“They were so easy with each other, I couldn’t believe it. Everything was a joke or a reference to something they’d shared. When my father told his friend my name, the man lit up. ‘Shaped from tree!’ he said in bad Norse. Whatever that meant.”

But Bjorn caught the mismatched reference. “Was your father particularly devoted to Odin?”

Askeladd blinked, taken aback. “I don’t know … I don’t think so. What does that have to do with anything?”

 _Does he really not know? Maybe he had more mead than I thought_. “Your name,” Bjorn explained. “Askr was the first man. Odin shaped him from a trunk of an ash tree that he found on the shore, and breathed life into him.”

Askeladd stared into the fire; the flames reflected in his eyes, his expression inscrutable. “Probably something like that. Can’t ask him now, obviously.”

“You know, it’s interesting. It’s the kind of name you give a first son.” _Askr is, anyway._

“Well, my father had an … interesting sense of humor, so being a perverse bastard about it probably appealed to him.” The observation was not fond, Bjorn noted with surprise; Askeladd’s face was a smooth mask, but his tone was hard and cold. 

“They didn’t spend much time on introductions, and it soon become clear what my father wanted from us; he wanted his friend to train me quickly, to condense six years into six weeks, so that by the time autumn arrived he would have a son whose instinct was welded to experience, foreknowledge. A complete warrior. The training began the next morning.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that man. The Chief wore a greatsword and shortbow slung across his back, but his favored weapon was the spear; this immense 9 ft shaft of hardened ash with a bone head, carved with runes; this weapon had seen much blood, and had extinguished the lives of many.. It was a blur in his hands. I had to train against a whirlwind wielding a sword or a spear, too fast to track, too fast to parry; the only recourse I had was to predict this monster’s moves in advance and position myself in his path at the right moment. That took me weeks to figure out, but when I did, I trounced him completely. He and my father were thrilled.

“The rest of our stay was like that. They’d figure out some challenge or some aspect of my training that needed special attention, and we would focus there until I had been given experience to the innate talent that lay in my hands. Only until there was no more disconnect. 

“I started fighting all fights like the one with the Chief, where instead of parrying and reacting to my opponent’s advance, I would read their intentions and adjust accordingly. I set the terms when I see my opponent's next move on his face.

“Can you do this with everyone?” Bjorn said in a hush. It was a considerable talent to have.

“Not yet,” Askeladd said. “Someday soon, I will.”

Bjorn believed him. 

“The Chief taught me how to shoot a bow and fight with an axe, a seax, with sword and shield, and with the spear. I could manage them all well enough, but the sword is where I excelled. The Chief and my father would speak in excited undertones while looking at me every few moments; in their other language, of course, so I couldn’t understand exactly what was going on.” Askeladd wobbled a bit in front of the fire, and Bjorn watched him, concern distracting him from the story. Maybe he really had had too much to drink; it would certainly account for this mood. 

“We left back for Denmark at the end of the season, when the autumn seas start to turn. My father was in high spirits on the way back – I had pleased him, he told me; I possessed great potential. I had performed well. Because that’s what I learned later, it hadn’t been about sharing at all, it was a performance. He told me to ask him for something, for anything in the world. It flattered his vanity to think of himself as generous, you know. 

“I …I asked him for the thing I wanted most in the world. I wouldn’t have normally, I wouldn’t have thought to do it if he hadn’t taken me with him, but … we were so far north, it seemed like a different world. Different rules. And I thought this journey indicated his favor, that since he had taken such an extended errand for the sake of my training, it meant I was … finally accepted. Preferred. But he refused.” Askeladd stared into the fire and traced the rim of the drinking horn with his thumb, as if in memory. “He said it was impossible, and to never ask him again.

“I knew better, I knew not to ask him for anything. I never had in my life, because I don’t make stupid demands, that’s not how anything is done in my father’s house. But sometimes, even though it’s stupid … I don’t know.” He looked up at Bjorn. “Sometimes you can’t help hoping.”

Bjorn kept his lips pressed together. The question crowded his tongue: _What did you want most in the world?_ It couldn’t have been small, not if the request was as tentative as he made it sound; only possible in that different world, a stark place he had never seen. He guessed Askeladd would have explained further if he had wanted Bjorn to know the details – perhaps he even regretted this smallest disclosure alone.

But nothing more needed to be said. The trust in the confession was enough; that he’d used it to encourage, to draw a similarity between them in this most vulnerable aspect, touched Bjorn to the quick. He turned aside the subject, though he so desperately wanted to know why, why, how it was possible, what it made him feel. “What was the land like?” he asked instead. “The people?” 

Bjorn had guessed true; the furrow in Askeladd’s brow smoothed, and the smallest smile curved his lips. Relief wasn’t as obvious as the features on your face, but Bjorn could see it well enough. “The land is too difficult to cultivate for crops, so their tribe hunts and gathers what they can, and trades for everything else. 

“They had these skiis, made from the strongest trees they had available to them, pine. But they had to be carved a certain way, that we southern folk couldn’t dream of replication. They’re made light, so that you could glide through the snow quickly, and arrive at your destination before your toes froze off. Some of them were so fine it was like you could see through them. I thought they’d break in the first run, but the woman who used them was faster than all the rest. It was amazing.”

“I think I’d like to try it.”

“It might take you a few days,” Askeladd said with a cheeky grin. “It was pretty difficult, after all. Even a natural struggled.”

“Ah ha. There it is.” 

“So the tribe got around mostly with these skiis, but some of the others wore these shoes with a wide frame, strung with cord, to keep the wearer above deep snows. It was amazing when you saw them coming from a distance, clad all in their furs. The Chief wore his giant snow bear fur that he’d hunted in his youth, complete with the head, so it looked like this massive creative was bearing down on us on skiis. Some of the servants with us were scared, but I thought it was funny. I think they lean into any theatricality. That Chief had such a sense of humor, the kind of thing would appeal to him. Also maybe a thief will think twice if they see an eight foot bear on skiis screaming curses as they come at him.”

“I probably would.”

Askeladd smiled, shaking his head. “It was a strange journey. I saw many things of the North Land – endless fjords and forests, each folded into the coast; the waters were so black it was as if you sailed atop the void. On clear nights there were stars in that one, too; though unstable, shivering as we moved through the water. 

“Hmm … you know what else, Bjorn? The cold smells different that far north. Here it’s brisk and bracing, it’ll wake you up if you had a slow morning, but the cold that far north is not so considerate. It slices through your clothes to your bones, and it has this smell, the way cold iron smells when you leave it outside all night. If you’re out too long, you smell just like that when you come back inside.”

Bjorn thought of this place of endless daylight, where the cold carried knives; thought of Askeladd training every hour of the day with a master he did not understand, in every discipline a warrior might one day desperately need in this wolf age. He could see this younger Askeladd in his mind’s eye; the last son, wary of his sudden fortune, looking for the catch. Overcome by what he was afraid to take as kindness – and how cruelly was his fear proved right. 

_No one will ever do that to you again._

“Anyway, we probably won’t have to look too hard for something to do come spring.” Askeladd had snatched his horn off the ground to pour himself more mead. Bjorn too found the allure in escaping in a tipsy haze, and pretending this frank conversation didn’t happen, at least not around each other. “Come spring, we’ll have good pickings.”

 _We?_ thought Bjorn. His face flushed nearly to his ears, and he cast his gaze to his worn-out shoes. But he could imagine such a future, which was the most unsettling thing about it, how easy it was, how natural. He had spent years pointedly not considering what he thought he could never have; now that the possibility beckoned, it was all he could think about. 

_I want to be his friend,_ Bjorn realized, with a fierce pang of longing. _I want to stay with him._ He wanted to be important to this fascinating person; enjoyed, relied upon, perhaps even preferred above all else. That last wish embarrassed him, and he flushed; it was stupid to fantasize about such preference, he chastised internally. Ridiculous to so completely lay claim to someone you barely knew. Even if there was only a little regard, a slight bias toward himself, that was enough. He could sustain himself for a thousand winters on such a feast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so so sorry this update took me forever, a combination of natural disasters, political upheaval, and health problems conspired against me to make all drafting very difficult. but i think for the most part all of these things have died down, so i can get back to it. tentatively. thank you to everyone hanging on with this story despite my abysmal update schedule, and a special massive thank you to all of you who have left me a comment on this story, you words have encouraged me more than i can say!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone reading, faving, following, commenting, kudoing, and reccing this fic!! this chapter is dedicated to everyone who has put up with my perfectionist whining this last month.

It was even colder when Askeladd woke the next morning. He groaned, groping toward consciousness; his nose was frozen nearly solid, and he couldn’t feel his fingers. He’d had the stupid idea of poking his head out of his furs for some fresher air during the night, and this was his punishment. The fire must have gone out not long after they’d fallen asleep.

Across the dim room, Bjorn had his undertunic bunched in his lap, and was dabbing carefully at his wounded shoulder with some salve. He must have slept heavily for once, for a tangled crown of auburn stuck out from his head in every direction. He absently batted down his recalcitrant hair with his free hand, working the salve into the wound. It might have hurt, but Bjorn made no sound of complaint. Instead, he murmured verses, too softly to make out the words.

 _He has a nice voice_ , Askeladd thought. It was soothing to listen to. “More _Havamál_?” he asked.

“ _Volupsa_ ,” Bjorn said at once. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. The cold did.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad, isn’t it? Give me a moment to relight the fire. I also have some warmer clothes you can use, if you need any.”

Askeladd dismissed his fussing with a wave of the hand. “I don’t know that verse either.”

“You are surprisingly uncultured,” Bjorn said with affected disapproval, setting aside the bowl of salve and shaking out his tunic.

“Won’t you share? It’s rude to mumble.”

“Do you care about rudeness, now?” Bjorn asked him, slightly muffled, as he pulled the tunic over his head.

“Just because I occasionally fall short of my standards doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to have them,” Askeladd shot back with a leer. “Out with it.”

Bjorn’s smile widened, as Askeladd expected it would, and spoke:

 _“Until three gods, strong and loving,  
_ _came from out of that company;  
_ _they found on land capable of little,  
_ _Askr and Embla, lacking in fate.  
  
_ _Breath they had not, spirit they had not,  
_ _blood nor bearing nor fresh complexions;  
_ _breath gave Odin, spirit gave Haenir,  
_ _blood gave Lodur, and fresh complexions._

 _An ash I know that stands, Yggdrasill it’s called,  
_ _a tall tree, drenched with shining loam;  
_ _from there come the dews which fall in the valley,  
_ _green, it stands always over Urd’s well.”_

Askeladd hmmed; despite himself, it was encouraging that the root of his name had come from such a noble source, even if its full application had been an insult. “It’s nicer than those sad verses.”

“I thought you said you liked tragedy.”

“Not all the time, obviously.”

Bjorn rummaged around inside the trunk by his pallet until he produced a thick woolen overtunic the color of rust. “Hm. Well, you made me think about it yesterday, so there it is.” He shrugged, trying not to look pleased.

“In the future, if I say something that reminds you of a verse, you have to tell me immediately.”

“I _have_ to?” Bjorn asked, all innocence. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll be sorely disappointed with you. My trust in you would be shattered.”

Bjorn stood, straightening the overtunic and looping his belt around his waist, pulling it tight. “Wouldn’t want that, now.”

While Askeladd dressed, Bjorn bustled about the main room, rekindling the firepit and straightening the scattered flowers and weeds over his worktable before gathering up ingredients stored in various places for what was probably stew: fresh meat (hopefully rabbit, probably squirrel), carrots and leeks, what looked like parsnips. He even procured a little bowl of salt; expensive, beyond generous.

Askeladd watched him surreptitiously, rubbing his brow. His head ached, dull pain pressing at his temples, and his mouth was unbearably dry. Chagrin chased the headache; he’d had too much to drink last night, and confessed some parts of himself better left unspoken, things he wouldn’t have even felt the desire to share with anyone else. The impulse was so bizarre and unexpected that it had outrun his hard-won circumspection; he never had the chance to rationalize it away.

But the shame abated the longer he thought about it. Far from being punished for his lapse, Bjorn had accommodated him, in a way no other ever had. In the face of this ridiculous misstep, Bjorn had refused to press, despite obvious curiosity shining in his eyes; perhaps seeing Askeladd’s discomfort, or guided by unconscious instinct, he turned the conversation toward things that had nothing to do with him beyond his observation. And he hadn’t just been changing the subject for its own sake; he was genuinely interested in the answer, in the things Askeladd had seen. _He’s seen so little else._

It was kind… it was _considerate_. No one had ever treated him like that before. Had even bothered to notice.

Bjorn passed him a piece of bread before dropping evenly cut pieces of carrot into the bubbling pot. “Do you think your father’s accepted that you’re leaving yet?” Askeladd asked in an undertone, picking his piece apart with anxious fingers. “Or will he waste a lot of time being angry about something he can’t change.” He didn’t hear Rorik stumping around in the loft, but he could be lurking somewhere outside.

Bjorn craned over his shoulder, straining to hear any sign of his father both from inside the house and in the yard beyond, before he turned back to Askeladd. “I don’t know. I even told him I’d come back every autumn and give him most of whatever I manage to earn, but it seemed like that just made him angrier.”

“Were you lying?”

“Of course not.” Bjorn sighed, stirring the pot.” The really stupid part is he’d probably end up with more money this way than if I stayed.”

“Maybe it’s not about the money.”

“You’re probably right. He likes having someone keep his household, and hates having to do any of this crap himself.”

“It wouldn’t kill him to start pulling his weight.” Askeladd took a bite of bread, for a moment lost in speculation. “How much did you say you get for that hemlock stuff?”

“I didn’t say. But usually it’s three silver pieces for two vials.”

Askeladd gaped at him, too surprised to mask it. “That much?!” It was easily the price of two sheep or three goats.

“Sure. It’s really dangerous, like I said. None of the other apprentices I know like to handle it, so Solveig pays me extra.”

“If you make that much from just one concentrate, why is this place –” Askeladd cut himself off before he could finish the thought, flushing. It was so easy to forget circumspection when talking to Bjorn.

Bjorn smirked at him. “Why is this place such a dump?”

Askeladd huffed. He should probably be annoyed that Bjorn was starting to read his mind, but to his surprise he found it was somewhat nice to be understood without making any particular effort. “You said it, not me.”

“Well, I can’t make this very often. It takes me awhile to gather up enough hemlock for the concentrate. And I can’t make everything we need around here, so I have to buy or trade for the rest of it.” His smile faded into a preoccupied frown. “I know I’ve left him enough for this winter, I counted it out already – and he knows who I buy these things from. Most of them are in our village, so it’s not even a long trip. He wouldn’t have to go that far.”

“I’m assuming these people that you buy sundry from like you more than they like him.”

Going by Bjorn’s expression, it was an accurate assumption. “Maybe,” he allowed after a moment, “but they still wouldn’t cheat him. It’s not like that around here. Even if they wanted to, the chief puts a stop to that kind of thing whenever he hears about it. And no one’s about to cross him over it.”

Askeladd had spoken to the man briefly before the village had come under attack; it was customary to present yourself to the local authority when you wandered onto his land. He was large and ruddy-complected, and his demeanor was warm, hospitable, but there had been a current of molten steel beneath the words. A hint of a warning beneath the welcome. “The people of this village are lucky to have a leader with such an even hand.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“Is he also going to have a problem with you leaving? Since you do so much around here.”

Bjorn’s mouth pinched in a frown. “I don’t know. I hope not.” He passed Askeladd a bowl of stew, bubbling in his bowl. “And I don’t do that much. No more than anyone else.”

Somehow, Askeladd doubted it, but chose not to press. 

They ate the rest of their meal in preoccupied silence, partly because Bjorn kept getting up in the middle of cooking or eating to take care of some new chore that had just occurred to him. Perhaps he hoped to appease his father’s mood with his labors, but Askeladd knew he was only making his departure more of a burden. How could Rorik think of anything else when Bjorn set about proving his usefulness with such earnest attention?

When he returned for the last time, it wasn’t to eat his own portion; carefully, he laid out the contents of his kit, rummaging around his satchel for the salve he’d been using on the holes in Askeladd’s leg.. “I need to clean and dress your wounds,” he said, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. He fixed Askeladd with a speculative look from beneath that irritating fringe. “You could probably do that yourself by now, if you preferred, but I’d like to at least check the stitches one more time.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of more practical experience. Since you can’t do this part on pig corpses.”

Bjorn smirked at him. “Very considerate.”

He arranged himself on his pallet, trying to ignore the flicker unease twisting in his stomach, his lurching heartbeat. Bjorn, damn him, noticed nothing; he rolled up Askeladd’s loose trouser right above the offending wound. He bent so close that his hair brushed Askeladd’s bare skin. His brow furrowed in concentration as he rolled the leg of Askeladd’s trouser up, past the knee, halfway up his thigh to where the wounds stuck out stark against his pale skin. Bjorn peered close, carefully testing the strength of the stitch, and how well it affixed itself to the surrounding skin by gently tugging two stitches slightly awayr; nodding when the procedure told him what he wanted to know. “Looks good.”

This time there wasn’t enough pain to distract him; he was acutely, uncomfortably aware of Bjorn’s hands on his thigh, fingers working the salve into the wound.

“See how the catgut dissolved as the scar formed?” Bjorn was saying, delighted, oblivious to Askeladd’s sudden, ridiculous discomfort. “This is healing better than I thought it would. I mean there weren’t that many stitches to worry about, and the wounds weren’t that wide. Arrow wounds aren’t nearly this picky; bolts are serious and take so much longer to heal, especially when it isn’t made well. You really were lucky it didn’t catch you in the throat or side. But this is shaping up fine.”

His response was almost precious. “Were you expecting to disfigure me?”

Bjorn sighed disapprovingly, dabbing gently at the wound. “Why do you have to be so dramatic?”

“It’s not being dramatic, it’s hyperbole. Most people think that’s funny.”

He rolled his eyes. “I just meant I wasn’t expecting the scar to be so neat. I don’t know that Tove could do it better.”

“Ha! What was it you said? Arrogance isn’t very charming.”

“Good thing I’m not trying to be charming, then. Anyway, it’s not arrogant to appraise your ability, good and bad. She’s better than me at everything else.”

“I’m going to tell her you said this.”

“Go right ahead; she’ll probably agree with me.”

“I wonder.” Bjorn apparently had no idea that she’d spent every second he wasn’t around boasting to a perfect stranger about how exceptional he was.

The look Bjorn gave him was distinctly irritated, as if he disliked the implication Askeladd would know better than he did about someone he’d worked with for nearly a decade, and known even longer. But Askeladd understood: There were always things you kept from the ones who you loved best; things that they wouldn’t believe, that you couldn’t survive the wrong reaction to.

“Here,” Bjorn was saying, oblivious to his reverie. “Chew on this.” He passed a small root into Askeladd’s hands.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

“You ass. It just tastes good, helps digestion, calms your mind, and gets the taste of morning out of your mouth. But if you’d rather be disgusting –”

Askeladd shoved it into his mouth, grinning rudely. And Bjorn was right; it _was_ good, woody and sweet somehow, edged with a spice he didn’t recognize. He chewed the little scrap of root for the rest of the morning, savoring the sweet wood smell and the inexplicably soft texture; not at all what he’d been expecting from chewing bark. It didn’t even take him long to notice the effects; his mouth felt fresh, his thoughts quiet and sharp, his nerves at ease. The root was probably responsible for that too. The cool air coming in from a cracked window, smelling like wet grass and rushing sea; the animals lowing in the byre, shuffling about for a better vantage point when Bjorn brought them their food.

With an armful of dirty cutlery and plates in his arms, Bjorn stepped outside into the cool morning, arranging the dirty dinnerware beside his leg on the stoop, before ducking inside once again. The next time he strode out he had two small buckets under his arms; they sloshed a bit of water over their sides as he took a seat, reaching over for the first plate within his reach.

Askeladd watched Bjorn’s hands as he worked. They were strong, finely shaped but chapped raw. Just before he dunked his hands in the dirty water, Askeladd could see little pinpricks of blood dotting his knuckles from where the skin had cracked. He remembered the scrape of callus on his bare thigh and imagined the blisters that must have formed them.

“Let me do that,” Askeladd said finally. Suddenly, he needed to move. His hands had been like that, once. 

Bjorn plunged his arms up to the elbow in cloudy water, his expression incredulous. “Why?”

 _Sitting around watching you work bothers me_. “I’m bored. Convalescence is boring.”

“Well, I don’t know how washing dishes is gonna help you on that front, since it’s the most boring task conceived by man.”

“I’m going to lose it if you don’t give me something to do with my hands.”

“Hm … come to think of it, I’d probably be going out of my mind after spending such a long time doing nothing but snarking at my host and eating his food.”

“Have mercy, then.”

Bjorn stood. “Alright, you do the dishes, and I’ll make some more bread. That’s a fair exchange.”

“Fair, _pfeh_! You just don’t want to get your hands all pruny. “

“Yeah, this situation has multiple benefits for me. Though, may I remind you, that you were the one begging me for something to do less than a minute ago. So, no complaining.”

“I wasn’t begging, I was appealing to your nobler sensibilities.”

“There’s your first mistake,” Bjorn said, chuckling.

They gathered the necessaries and arranged themselves across the firepit, Bjorn by the kiln and Askeladd by the corner near the door, the better to tip out dirty water. Of the two tasks, Bjorn had given himself the longer, more exhausting one; there weren’t that many dishes for Askeladd to clean, but Bjorn had to make bread for the next week. He did so cheerfully, humming a little to himself.

 _He really does have a nice voice._ It took Askeladd far too long to realize that voice _was_ laughing at him.

“What?”

“Ah, nothing.”

“You’re laughing at nothing?”

Bjorn snorted. “You just reminded me of this dumb story Tove likes.”

“I’m going to tell her you said this, too.”

“If you're trying to get me in trouble or something, I’ve already told her exactly what I think about it. She likes it because she’s arrogant and it serves her view of the world. I think it’s kind of ridiculous, but maybe nice to think about in an abstract sort of way.”

“Are you going to keep talking _about_ the story, or will you actually tell it to me?”

“You seriously want me to keep blathering about this stuff? That’s all I did the way and back to Haitahbu.”

“Yes, because sitting in silence is obviously an improvement to a story, you’re right. How foolish of me.”

“Alright, alright. Don’t get upset.” He took a deep breath, as if to summon its world within his mind. “While she was in Kiev, she met a traveler from the east. And he told her–”

“She’s been to Kiev?” Askeladd blurted, too surprised to check himself.

“Yeah, a long time ago. Probably with her skald friend.”

He gave Askeladd a stern look. “Now you can’t interrupt me a bunch of times with this one, or I’ll lose the thread entirely. It’s not in verse at all, so it’s harder for me to remember.”

“I will be as silent as the barrow.”

Bjorn fixed him with a long look, as if weighing the truth of his words through his ingratiating expression. Finally, he spoke: “Five hundred years ago, the world ended.

“The sun faded. Crops withered in the fields, farms were abandoned, people from every land starved to death in darkness. The denizens of prosperous villages disappeared seemingly overnight, leaving only the barren skeletons of their empty homes behind. As they fled, they prayed desperately to their gods to deliver them from this calamity, only for their pleas to fall on deaf ears. Whatever tipped the world over the edge had affected the gods as well.

“Or perhaps, said the realistists among them, this was the gods’ doing. What mere appeal satisfies punishment?

“For years, they wandered. Wherever they went, the land was empty. Nothing lived there, nothing grew, nothing healed; pale, weak light shone from the sun, but it had no heat, and breathed no life in the soil. They lived on bark, insects, marrow from bones they boiled. They were people of the earth, in a land that no longer loved them.”

 _Five hundred years ago was supposed to have been when Artorius lived_ , Askeladd thought; _did he wander such a wasted place_?

“When the world was built anew, the people picked themselves out of the ashes, peeked out from the ruins of the cities that once had been, the farms and fields. They could make a dead place grow again, if only they had determination in the face of discouragement, and the guiding vision of one, whose insight could lead the people from their pain. They knew if they were to survive, they must unite under one.”

Bjorn had stopped kneading dough; he was so intent on the image he conjured. “But it is not so easy, finding a man worthy enough to be a king. They held a great council, but no accord could be reached. A scholar from the dead world insisted their extensive knowledge was essential, only they could penetrate through the complexity of a king’s affairs. The warlord scoffed; he had won many battles, and secured many victories for his men, even when times were lean and hard. He had such practical experience, more than these soft-bellies. The merchant advertised his cunning, the scout his farsight; everyone thought they were worthy, and it would soon come to blows if no one intervened.

“Then they heard a voice from the sea: _I will tell you who to follow._

“At first, the people were suspicious. Who was this creature, to only now insert itself in human affairs? Where was it when the people were starving, dying in droves; where was this supposed master of the races when their need was greatest?

“But the squabbling leaders saw their chance; their case would be greatly bolstered by a god’s favor. The warlord spoke first, making his appeal. He already knew the business of leadership; he had guided his men to many victories, land and riches untold. The god was not impressed; it turned from the warlord after only watching him for a second. _‘Any man can kill_ ,” said it _, “but a king must not be just any man.’”_

“It heard all the people in turn and rejected them the same; they did not have the hands this god required, they would not know the worst that must be done, if the people were to survive. For the world had fallen ill, people balanced on the razor’s edge of death in a thousand ways. Finally, the god tired of their bickering. It spoke in a voice that echoed down to the marrow of your bones, the core of yourself. _Your leader will be the healer._

“There was much muttering and skepticism. The healer they knew was a small man, sharp-tempered, and always entangled in some task or research, or his latest patient’s troubles. The people knew he had neither the skill nor the character for such a task. “Well, where is he?” the people demanded.

 _At work,_ said the god. _As will a king always be._

 _Go to the northernmost village of land and speak with the man with a crane drawn on his door. The door will be blue, and the crane white._ ‘Who is this man to have won the devotion of a god?’ wondered the merchant. _‘Not just any man,’_ said the god once more, _‘but a healer. For to knit a realm together, a king must already know such work.’_ So, they journeyed to that village, and found the man, and told him what their god had said. The man didn’t want to go; he had his work, you see. More than ever, now that the world had ended. The people of his village needed him. The scholar said that as he had worked in this village to heal its people, now all the land needed the same from him, something that only he could do. It is an extension of what you have always done, said the scholar, not a change. The healer wasn’t so removed from the world not to know what happened in those lands beyond the gates of his village; how everything was poor, its people wounded in their _hamr_ and heart. That was the appeal that worked.” 

Askeladd couldn’t reply, and Bjorn mistook his silence for derision. “See why she likes it? Rotten old woman,” he said affectionately. “I told her she had to be messing around with me, and she told me to hush up, it was true, the whole thing down to the color of the door. I said it _was_ too convenient; nothing in real life happens that neatly. Including the crane? Honestly. It all makes too much sense.”

Askeladd forced himself to speak; his voice felt like a rusted hinge. “You don’t approve?” 

“Well, I don’t know. No one really learns a lesson unless they hash it out for themselves. Working with their hands. It’s easier to remember something you muddled through yourself, something you really had to wrestle with, than it is something you were only told. Maybe it would be better for those people to find a king themselves, without the guidance of a god. And maybe he’s not perfect, maybe they have to start again with someone else if he really screws it up. But they’d take what they learned and try again. I don’t know. That seems better than never questioning what you’re told to do.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “To me, anyway.”

“You’d think this would appeal to your sensibilities too, considering your own profession.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a profession yet. And I don’t know that any one profession makes you more suited toward ruling than the other. Why not a butcher king? Why not a hunter? Why not a woman from a pubhouse? You should probably know how to do a lot of things. So, it’s more about character, isn’t it? Lots of smart, strong, clever kings fail all the time, because they didn’t surround themselves with people who could make up for his lack. I think to be a king, more than strength or intelligence, you need vision. Insight beyond what a normal person can muster.”

“You don’t think character is expressed in that choice of profession?”

Bjorn made a sweeping gesture. “For some people, maybe. But I mean – those people already spent a long time scrapping in the dirt to survive, all of them, no matter what they did in the world before. One of them might have been more suited. Maybe he didn’t have any kind of esteemed job at all; maybe he dug latrine ditches. But he could have had the instinct and skill to be a true leader; how stupid would it be to pass up potential, just because of where it came from?”

“You’ve thought a lot about it.”

“Well, there’s not much else to do around here.” Bjorn grinned at him. “We don’t always get wounded lords to fuss over.”

“I noticed you’ve done most of the fussing.”

“Oh, it’s ah – it’s just better this way. I know what I’m doing, I’d have to explain how things work to him, it’d take twice as long to get you healthy again, and I don’t know about you, but this isn’t exactly a great place to stay for a long time.”

“It hasn’t been so bad. Not that I’d tell you if it was pretty rude to criticize someone’s house while you’re living in it.”

“I think there’s a Hávamál stanza that says the exact same thing;”

“Of course, there is, because it’s practical.” He beamed at Askeladd, as if pleased he’d remembered the reference. Askeladd was surprised he had too; the things people said to him seemed insubstantial as mist, sometimes, slipping past his ears, dissolved by the time it took to understand. Bjorn’s voice wasn’t mist; it was the crack of a felled tree, the little _ping_ as his spear struck the wooden target, his steady hands at the table full of flowers, working, working …

_A king must have the hands of a healer… to knit a realm together._

His heart raced _. Absurd._

It was nearing midday when Rorik finally returned from his morning hunt. He knocked his boots at the side of the doorframe to shake off excess mud, which was a shred of consideration Askeladd hadn’t thought possible for the man. He plopped down at his place at the head of the firepit, heaving a mighty sigh and stretching his arms overhead, good hand pulling at the halved stump of his left. Bjorn had filled a bowl of stew and held it out for him before he’d even finished the gesture. He took it without a word, wedging the bowl between his knees, and Bjorn slipped away, somewhere outside. Askeladd ought to be annoyed at the retreat, but seeing what he’d seen, he couldn’t really blame him.

To his surprise, Rorik broke the heavy silence. “Is your leg holding up well, then.”

“Quite well, thank you. Your son is a considerable healer.”

No response: Rorik took a rude mouthful of soup and chewed his carrots in a bland, accusing sort of way.

“Well, Rorik, I must thank you for the use of your home these last weeks,” Askeladd said easily; he was good at being polite around people he hated. “Your son left me wanting for nothing. And with so much to take care of already. Truly a diligent sort.” A little bite on the words, though his smile never faltered. 

Rorik glowered at him. “He likes the sound of his own voice.”

Cold prickled the back of Askeladd’s neck. _He likes talking to people, telling stories, explaining how things work_. “How fortunate for him, and for you. After all, there are certainly worse defects to have.” He gave his host a frosty smile. “Thank you for the meal, Rorik, and your hospitality. They will hear of it in my uncle’s hall this winter.”

It wasn’t very wise, but Askeladd took petty delight in the frustrated expression twisting Rorik’s features.

~

It only took Bjorn another three days to settle affairs in his house. He made more food than he ever had, cured meat his father had obtained for the long winter months ahead, repaired cracks and leaks in the walls and cutlery, mended his father’s clothes for the last time, scoured every surface; he even did things he’d rarely had the time or energy for, like stacking wood for Rorik’s carvings neatly at the side of the house, so he wouldn’t have to trudge through the snow to the woodpile for a new piece.

Askeladd helped more than he should have, considering his wounds, but Bjorn couldn’t put him off. Unlike before, whenever he tried to distract his guest with difficult questions, this time Askeladd refused to indulge him with a sarcastic answer, and he was forced to submit to his interest. There was a strange edge to him now, Bjorn thought, watching his expression as he kneaded dough for the next batch of bread. He was too familiar with this work for a nobleman, Bjorn finally realized; he hadn’t needed any instruction at all.

 _Maybe he’s done it while viking_ , Bjorn thought doubtfully. Somehow the explanation didn’t seem to fit; a lord and his kin on campaign wouldn’t need to prepare his own food, not when all the men that lived in his holdfast fought under his command.

But he only smiled when he caught Bjorn staring. “Is something the matter?”

Bjorn knew instinctively: _Don’t ask him about it._ “Just hungry,” he lied.

In the days it took Bjorn to prepare, Rorik barely came down from his loft; when he bothered to, it was only for long enough to grab some food or ale before stumping back up the rough-hewn steps. For the first time since his mother died, Bjorn didn’t hear the sounds of him working, the scrape of a blade on wood, his huff of irritation or hum of approval as he appraised his efforts; only the creaking of floorboards as he paced from one end of the loft to the other. _Ruminating_ , Bjorn thought with increasing unease.

The closer the date to their departure approached, the more buoyant Askeladd’s mood became; instead of Bjorn filling the silence with stories and answers to Askeladd’s endless questions, this time Askeladd was the one who shared; little pieces, far too little to assemble a whole, but far more than the mask he normally wore. Perhaps an outline in shadow, with light breaking through to illuminate a curve there, an angle here. He was fond of philosophical stories, he loved to bait his conversation partner with things he didn’t necessarily believe, all to gauge the strength of their reaction.

Bjorn woke that last morning with a heavy heart. His skin prickled; not from cold, but unease. For once, he didn’t hear Rorik stumping around, pacing with an increasing irritation as his ideas tangled around him. Everything was still and silent; even the birds had fallen quiet.

Bjorn submitted to his chores for the last time, but his mind was already a hundred leagues away: drinking in a golden hall, surrounded by kin and comrades, their dragon-ships skimming over the seas. Certainty in his heart. Jutland was so small, and the world was immense, stretching out beyond comprehension; there was no way anyone could see the whole thing in their lifetime. But he understood the desire to try all too well.

He’d never done such a sloppy job keeping this household; his mind was in the clouds. He was getting out of here; he was really, _finally_ getting out of here. Something he had wanted for so long, so desperately, was nearly his. He was allowed to want it now, nothing was stopping him, nothing. He could take a step out the door and know freedom.

Rorik didn’t return until the evening, when the sun was balanced above the horizon, threatening to slip below the swaying fringe of tall grass. There was an ill smell from the bog nearby, and the byre was almost beyond tolerance, the world souring. With an exaggerated sigh, Rorik sat at the firepit and ladled a giant bowl of stew, stuffing a cut of dried meat and an entire loaf of bread under his arm. So provisioned, he turned toward his loft.

But before he went back upstairs, he met Bjorn’s gaze with a level stare, and smiled.

Bjorn’s gut twisted, heart lurching into his throat. He hadn’t seen his father smile in almost a decade. Nothing he’d ever done had unsettled Bjorn so much; it would have been less terrifying if his father had beat him breathless again. That was normal; he could endure normal. How often did he curse it, malign the constant boredom, only to need it now.

Understanding struck him like a slap to the face. Scrambling across the room, he yanked the cover off his little storage in the wall, hurling it aside. With trembling hands, he pawed through the contents, blind with panic, blind to anything but what he sought, what couldn’t possibly be missing, couldn’t possibly –

“Askeladd,” he said hoarsely. Terror took him by the throat. “Did you touch what was in here?”

Askeladd drew back, blinking. “No,” he said immediately, too surprised to make a joke out of it. “What was in there?”

Bjorn didn’t answer. Relief washed over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under; for a moment, he was too dizzy to speak. “Alright,” he finally managed, hoarse. “Alright. Good.”

His relief was short-lived. If Askeladd hadn’t taken it, there was only one person who would. Who would have a long-stewed reason, a decade of hate giving him nerve. A perfect, untraceable weapon just a few steps away. Who would know ... Realization took him like a spear to the heart, drove the breath from his lungs. He was on his feet and out the door in the next heartbeat, too panicked to remember his axe or cloak.

“Bjorn!” Askeladd called, struggling to keep pace.

Bjorn didn’t turn. “I’m being paranoid,” he whispered, half-stumbling through the tall grass. The world had tilted like the deck of a sinking ship, dropping away under his feet, so that he was always unbalanced, always falling. His heart raced, blood pounded in his ears. He knew, somehow, as a gust of wind whipped the grass against his thighs, that his instinct had the weight of premonition.


	12. Chapter 12

Askeladd staggered on unseen rock, almost sprawling in the dirt before hitting his stride once more. His lungs burned with each gulp of breath, his heart surging against his ribs. The path spread out before him, a low sloping hill just steep enough to unbalance an already unsteady leg. More than a fortnight of disuse had left him weak, slower than he could ever remember being, like one of those nightmares where he tried to run over a sandy flat, his feet sucked down the harder he struggled.

Bjorn paid him no heed, nor matched his pace to Askeladd’s faltering one, as he had done before; desperation made him fast. It took Askeladd every ounce of strength he had just to keep him in sight, from pulling away too far.

It hadn’t taken him long to put it together: Bjorn’s panic, the empty hiding place, where the deadly substance was supposed to be. A sickly smile on a demon’s face. He knew already what they would find. But he couldn’t open his mouth and say it; couldn’t force the words off his tongue. His voice would be swallowed by the wind the moment he spoke. Speaking would make it true, irreversible. Would kill the slightest chance that he was wrong.

They summited the last low hill and skidded down its slope. Her hut loomed in the distance, a dark smudge that grew more distinct the closer they came. The windows were dark, and no smoke rose from the roof; as they drew near enough to peer inside, they saw that the hut was unoccupied; perhaps it had been for a while. Askeladd could sense Bjorn’s mounting relief, clenching in his own heart. But it didn’t feel right to him; the darkness seemed permanent, spreading from a pinpoint to poison the entire world.

“She’s probably calling on someone,” Bjorn said, pulling away from the window. “The Chief’s daughter is about to have a baby. That’s probably it. Then she wouldn’t have found it yet, and I can find it first.” 

_No_ , Askeladd thought. That was the worst part, the thing that cut at him afterward: the earnest hope on Bjorn’s face as he made his plans. In the time they’d known one another, he had never seemed so young. It died when a rattling breath shattered the silence, just out of sight.

They found her slumped against the outer wall of her home, facing her garden. The setting sun cast half her face in a fringy shadow, and her gaze was distant, as if she saw through this world to the next. It focused slightly when she caught sight of Bjorn bounding around the corner, skidding forward in his haste. He dropped to his knees as her side and clutched her wrist, pressing his fingers to the underside.

“Ah,” she said softly, her chest twitching as she gasped for breath. “I wondered ...”

“Tove, I can find a purgative, just let me –”

“Bjorn … stop it. You know better.”

He didn’t seem to hear her; his hands fluttered about anxiously, looking in vain for something to stitch together, something to fix. “ – it hasn’t been that long, has it? It can’t have been that long, he only just got back. He – do you know how much you took? How did you take it? Did you drink, or – All my vials were gone, and I thought it might be him, I thought – I don’t know if –”

Her eyes closed. “Yes. He probably – used them all,” she forced out, smiling ruefully. “Can’t be too careful.”

That killed the last of his desperate panic; his reaching hand dropped to the ground, balling into a tight, shaking fist. “What are you doing out here?” he said finally, hoarse.

“When I realized … I thought I would sit outside and watch the sunset,” she said softly. “The world is so beautiful, you know… but you haven’t seen any of it.”

“Tove –”

“I – I don’t much like the idea of suffocating. That’s what happens, as everything – as it all shuts down. It’s all too slow. I have … my blade here.” She nodded down to the dagger clenched in a vice grip, her arm splayed awkwardly at her side. “I was going to use it when the sun had gone down. Eydis wouldn’t hold that against me, spilling – my own blood. Not anyone else’s. I promised her – but …” she trailed off, tears tracking down her cheeks. “I waited too long. I – can’t lift my hand. I can’t hold it steady.” She gulped down a ragged breath. “I can’t breathe right.”

Bjorn said nothing. Askeladd couldn’t see his face, couldn’t bring himself to draw closer, knowing instinctively that he wouldn’t be able to bear the expression. It was a brutal tableau, beyond cruelty: an old woman slumped and twitching in a puddle of mud, gasping for breath, too weak to stand; a person who made her trade helping, fixing, saving, making. Fury licked at his heart; was there anything worthwhile that could survive in this world? It didn’t matter what you did, how desperately you fought against it; all was eventually consumed.

She looked up at Bjorn with glassy eyes. “Will you help me?”

Bjorn’s shoulders had started to shake.

A sob caught in her throat. “Will you forgive me, for not doing more?”

Askeladd thought he would refuse her, that he wouldn’t be able to bear ending her life himself; knowing without needing to be told that it was the last thing on earth he ever wanted to do. It would have been for Askeladd. But after a long moment he unfurled her fingers from the hilt of the dagger and turned it around, the point of the blade angling inward, before folding her clenched fist between his hands. “You did more for me than anyone.”

“What a … miserable commentary.” She tried to smile, but her breath rasped in the horrible silence, each more labored than the last, and her dread stole the effect. Askeladd had seen much death in his life, had dealt it often, but there was something about poison that was worse than a blade; to have your own body slowly turned against you, to know it was beyond convincing, impervious to appeal. Irrevocable.

Bjorn saw her pain, and it decided him. No declarations or appeals for forgiveness; no dragging out her suffering for his comfort. He laid the point of the blade against her chest, steadying his hand. It was important to strike true, she had said, in what seemed a lifetime ago; death recast as deliverance from pain.

 _“Bjarni …”_ she whispered. _“Go.”_

He did not hesitate; when he thrust the blade into her heart, neither made a sound. She jerked once before going still, sagging against the wall.

It was unbearably, excruciatingly quiet; the absence of her scraping breaths left the world soundless and empty, that screaming silence echoing outward, to scar the entire world. After a long moment, Bjorn withdrew the blade from her chest and wiped the blood from the blade with the hem of his tunic. Askeladd realized in an instant; he wouldn’t dirty her clothes, use them like a rag to discard. She was dead, but it still mattered.

He forced himself to speak. “…Bjorn.”

But Bjorn didn’t seem to hear. “I thought to myself, ‘get rid of it, destroy it’, I thought it multiple times, before and after Haithabu, but she – she told me not to worry, that he wouldn’t … he wouldn’t do something like this. I felt foolish for overreacting and …” His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. _“I needed the money.”_

Outrage broke through the sickened shock; he was yanked forcefully back to the present, to the sight of Bjorn still holding Tove’s dagger, staring down at her with wide eyes, as if he still couldn’t believe what was happening. Her blood stained his leg. “Are you seriously blaming yourself for this?!” Askeladd demanded. He sounded shrill to his ears. “Really?!”

Bjorn looked up at him, and his face – his face, Askeladd could never forget it, no matter how desperately he tried – the face of a drowned man. “I made him mad … and I made it easy. I gave him a reason and put a weapon in his hand.”

“He didn’t need you to give him a reason, they had a grudge long before you got involved,” Askeladd retorted. “You saw them fighting.”

Bjorn shook his head. “Stop.”

“You didn’t put anything in his hand, he _stole_ something from you. Who knows how long he’s planned this.”

“He wouldn’t have done this if I kept my mouth shut,” Bjorn said, hands balling into fists. “He wouldn’t have done it if there was any hope of her fighting back. He was afraid of her, he knows she could have killed him in a fair fight.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. “I never told him about it, I kept it hidden all this time, how did he know …?”

Realization struck Askeladd like a physical blow. “He only knew because I asked you about it. He must have overheard me. This is –”

“No.”

“—probably my fault, so it’s wrong for you to –“

“Stop.”

“—act like you’re the one responsible, when you –”

**_“Askeladd!”_ **

He shouted so loudly a flock of birds roosting in the grove launched toward the sky like a cloud of insects, spiraling up into the gathering clouds. He trembled, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone white against flushed skin. But when he spoke again, it was in a hoarse whisper, as if the effort of Askeladd’s name had drained his last reserves of defiance. “Will you wait out here for me?” He swallowed hard. “Please?” His voice cracked on the appeal.

 _He doesn’t want you to see him weep._ Askeladd didn’t think he could bear the sight either. He nodded wordlessly.

Bjorn turned away, his hair falling to shade his face from view. He stuck the dagger in his belt and swept Tove’s body up in his arms, standing with effort. Before Askeladd could think to say anything else, he stepped over the threshold of her back door and kicked it shut behind him.

The horrible silence pounded in Askeladd’s ears. His hands were shaking; his gut churned as the horror of what he’d seen settled over him like a cold, wet blanket. Ridiculous, ridiculous to lose his head; how much death had he seen in his life? But never before had it seemed so stark. Disease was somehow kinder; unavoidable as fate, not caused by a cruel or careless hand.

Slowly anger replaced the horror. He fumed at Bjorn’s response; stubborn, so stubborn. Determined to blame himself. But Askeladd knew who was really to blame, and he planned that creature’s death with vicious intent he hadn’t known in years.

He could make it painful. He could make it shameful, make it last; cut away pride before flesh. _I will make you feel powerless before I give you an end._ This was familiar work; he had done it once before.

Askeladd watched the sky fade, his thoughts whirling. Maybe he should leave now; go back before Bjorn could stop him, kill Rorik before Bjorn had a chance to put himself in the path of that creature’s blade. The longer he sat motionless the more it seemed like the right thing to do, but Bjorn’s plea stopped him. The expression he wore cutting at him like a rusted blade, all ragged edge. He had wanted Askeladd to wait. It was important.

Only a little light remained when suspicion filtered through his plans; it was too quiet. He heard no weeping, or moving around; no feet scuffing over sod. With a sick jolt of realization, he lurched stiffly to his feet and yanked the door open, peering inside the gloom.

The room was empty. Bjorn had laid Tove out on her pallet and pulled a blanket over her head. The window across the room gaped like an open wound. _“Fuck,”_ he hissed, stumbling out of the hut and up the path, staggering in his haste. “FUCK!”

~

Bjorn ran without seeing. Grief threatened to overwhelm, but guilt was stronger, harsher; it drove him mercilessly over the hill and through the fields, heedless of pain or exhaustion. He was not allowed to mind it yet; he couldn’t stop, no matter how devastated or afraid. 

_Your fault_ , beat his heart. _Your fault_.

Tove would never be able to rest while her murderer walked free. And Bjorn would not permit exile and outlawry as punishment, nor would he wait for a verdict from authority. He would kill Rorik, or Rorik would kill him. That was the only outcome he could accept.

His feet found the path as though by instinct. The grass bowed under a wild gust of wind, thrashing his legs. Guilt nipped at his heels, chasing him on. _This is what happens,_ it hissed savagely. _This is what you get for wanting things to be nice. For thinking you could impose it yourself_ . He knew better; he had to look at what was there, not what he wished could be. He should have known better. Idiot. Idiot. _This is what you get._

A plan crystalized around one instinct; _keep him away from the sword._ The only way Bjorn could reliably do that was to use it himself.

He still barely knew how. Askeladd hadn’t been able to show him anything while wounded; and his explanations alone left some to be desired. He knew what he was doing the way you know how to breathe; without training, you couldn’t hope to explain its mechanism. But Bjorn couldn’t let himself worry about that now. If he moved fast enough, none of this would matter. 

A light shone in the distance, and he sped toward it, each footfall jarring his teeth. Briefly he considered waiting until his father fell asleep before slitting his throat, but he dismissed this after a moment; his father had murdered Tove underhandedly, he wouldn’t settle her death in the same fashion. He wanted Rorik fully aware when the fatal blow landed.

When he hauled open the front door, he was given the smallest piece of luck; his father had come downstairs for some more mead in the time since Bjorn had left. He drew back when he caught sight of Bjorn in the doorway, breathing hard, hair tangled from the wind. He could only guess what showed on his face, while fury roiled in his heart.

Bjorn didn’t hesitate; he shot toward the steps to the loft, clambering up them before his father could realize what he intended. Rorik shouted something, launching after him; he had pulled himself up and taken a few steps when a vice closed around his ankle and yanked him back. He fell hard enough to jostle a bowl off the table by Rorik’s bed; but as his father tried to pull him away, he drew back with his other leg and kicked Rorik in the brow, watching as his head snapped back from the force of the blow. Scrambling to his feet, Bjorn stumbled across the floor and grabbed the sword just as his father finally hauled himself upright. He lunged, and Bjorn swung the blade in a tight arc –

Blood spattered the wall. His father had jerked back at the last moment, but the blade had carved a deep slash angling down across his brow and between his eyes. He blinked in shock, and Bjorn pressed him before he could recover; another lunge, another swing, forcing him to drop down to the main floor. Bjorn aimed another swing at his head to drive him away from the stairs before pursuing.

“Stop this!” Rorik said, breathing hard. He held the side of his left stump against the wound on his brow, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. “Stop this tantrum.”

Bjorn advanced; it was no longer possible to goad him. “This is a proportionate response to what you’ve done.”

“What about what you’ve done? What you were trying to do.”

“There’s no trying about it.”

 _“Can_ you still leave now? Would you leave the people in your village without a healer?”

Shock halted his advance; for a moment, he was too stunned to move, to think. _He doesn’t know we’re not the only healers around here_ , Bjorn realized, sick to his stomach. Solveig and Helka, and their newer apprentices, all just a few days away. If only he’d spoken a little more about it.

“Even if this little plan had worked, and you trapped me here,” Bjorn said from between gritted teeth, “you won’t be around to benefit.” He tightened his shaking grip on the hilt of the sword. His palms were slick. Fury chewed his heart to splinters. “If I didn’t kill you, the law would.”

“For what crime? An old woman drops dead; you can’t prove it wasn’t natural.”

He had thought about it, more than Bjorn assumed was possible for him. The injustice overwhelmed the last of Bjorn’s control. “How could you think _I_ would accept this?! That I would come back with my tail between my legs and keep your fucking household after you – what the fuck were you thinking? Do you ever think at all?!”

His father looked at him with cold eyes. “You never fight back. How could I think anything else?” he said, radiating contempt.

For a moment, Bjorn was too stunned to reply; it rankled beyond description that his endurance should reflect poorly on him, his perseverance despite abuse, loyalty to one who didn’t deserve it, and to the other who deserved it all – but to his father, this rendered him a weakling, a coward. He shook like a leaf in a storm, rage twisting his stomach until bile burned the back of his throat. “Yeah, well … that’s finished.” 

That gave his father pause; a flicker of something he didn’t recognize chased across his haggard features. “Put the sword down.”

Bjorn advanced, one slow step after another. “No.”

“Put it down, _now_.”

He lunged.

~

Askeladd stumbled through the darkness, feeling his way down the path. Only a little light remained on the horizon; not nearly enough to see where he was going. Cold fury burned in his thoughts, multiplying with every step. There was too much to rage at, too much to hate.

_You can’t be angry at him for this, hypocrite._

But it wasn’t Bjorn’s intention that rankled; Askeladd had spent the last hour fantasizing about driving his sword through the man’s neck, to say nothing of what he’d done to his own father for similar transgressions. Rather, Bjorn had _lied_ ; he had chastised Askeladd for traveling on his own before rushing off to fight a demon himself, without saying a word, after _misdirecting_ with genuine emotion – **_he’s_ ** _the hypocrite!_

Like any experienced liar, Bjorn had deceived with the truth. But that hadn’t been all; he had enacted Askeladd’s first impulse to rush off and fight himself, an impulse that Askeladd had subverted at _Bjorn’s request!_ Beyond infuriating. The entire situation set his heart aflame, tore it into a thousand pieces. He was going to kill that beast, and then give Bjorn a piece of his fucking mind. He had to be alive for that part.

He could catch up in time if he pushed himself faster.

 _Stop,_ said the voice – too cruel to be a conscience. _Turn around. They aren’t your people. This isn’t your business._ Askeladd pushed himself faster, his leg aching with each desperate stride. _You hate them,_ insisted the voice. _You hate Danes._ Faster, willing a wound to disappear. Faster.

It was true that he hated Rorik, with the kind of ice-driven intensity that was as familiar to him as a pair of boots that had molded to his feet, but that place she had cultivated after many long years felt like an island, a land apart. In that little hut lived a people unlike any he had ever known before; their world was quiet and warm and smelled of earth. The air was limned with golden light, and the sound of working hands gilded the room, a verse running beneath it, too soft to understand.

But the light was gone; the voice had been silenced _. Of course he blamed himself, he blamed himself for the fucking sacrifice too._ Infuriating. As if he could control the slow, silent progress of rot, or impose good on bad. Was it easier to cope with a mistake within his power, somehow? It wasn’t right. None of it was right.

His leg was already starting to weaken, but that only made him more desperate; he had to end this before it buckled under the strain. Cursing himself for his lack of foresight, he thundered up the path toward the light in the distance, closing it faster than prudency allowed. If he hadn’t spent the last fortnight on his ass, this would not be such a desperate endeavor.

The door was just before him, hanging ajar. He barely made a sound – his boot caught on the lip of the doorway – but that was all it took. Bjorn turned toward the disturbance, and that split second of distraction cost him; before Askeladd could cry out, Rorik smashed Bjorn across the face with one meaty fist, sending him sprawling. The sword spun out of his hand, skittering across the sod.

Rorik looked up at him, his gaze burning through a veil of lank hair that hung in his bloody face. “Get out,” he rasped, breathing hard. “This isn’t your business.”

Askeladd stepped over the threshold and drew his sword. His skin crawled; disgusted beyond words to hear his thoughts echoed by such a repulsive source.

Rorik’s mouth twitched. “Are you going to fight me with a broken leg?” He bent, kicking Bjorn’s twitching hand away from the hilt of the sword before snatching it up. The point of the blade hovered, too close to Bjorn’s unguarded back, too close –

Askeladd limped deeper into the gloom, leg throbbing with each step. His blood snapped in his veins, like water poured over ice. “Get away from him.”

With a curl of lip, Rorik smashed his foot into Bjorn side, hard enough that Bjorn slammed into the wall. He labored to stand for one awful moment before slumping to the ground, going still.

Askeladd was across the room before consciously deciding to move, the sword living silver in his hands. He launched into an overhand blow and Rorik caught it with his blade, turning it aside before lunging to the left, raining Askeladd with savage strokes. His parry jarred his arms nearly from the sockets.

And he knew in an instant that even for all his idle speculation and furious planning, he had still underestimated the creature. Rorik had turned deformity into advantage; each blow came at Askeladd from slightly off center, each slash and thrust askew, so Askeladd was always losing a half-second to react, reorient; his feet could barely keep up with his sight, his arms with each thought, every reflex awry.

Fury could only take him so far; he needed to finish this quickly. He forced himself to press, parrying a downward stroke before sliding to Rorik’s left, trying to catch him on his weak side – but Rorik was prepared for such an assault; how many times must he have turned them aside in his lowly life? In fact, each attempt infuriated him; his expression contorted in bestial intent at every blow that Askeladd landed. Still, despite the onslaught, he noted with pride half a dozen strokes of red on Rorik’s arms and chest already, wounds Bjorn had inflicted.

But it sunk in slowly, as each riposte slowed, took more out of him; as he sensed his leg finally buckling. _He’s going to kill you_ , Askeladd thought, barely catching a brutal overhand blow in time. _This is it._ His leg caught something on the ground; it shattered as he shifted over the sod, dodging a wild stroke from the right. _This is the fight you were looking for._ He had to finish it, he had to get Bjorn out of here, to _go_ _–_

He vaulted backward out of the path of another off-kilter slash, the point of it catching his cloak, before edging around the firepit. Rorik regarded him with unhinged eyes, pitted wide in a bloodstained face, a demon’s face. He stormed after Askeladd, and in that moment time slowed to a molasses crawl; he saw the blow Rorik aimed for his head, the force he’d put behind it in a corded band of muscle on his good arm, and knew it would take his head off if he didn’t move. His leg flung out –

– and his foot connected with a burning lump in the pit, sending it sailing through the air. For a brief heartbeat it seemed like it might take Rorik in the face, but he brought up his left stump just in time, slamming the clump of wood away. It landed in a shower of sparks on Bjorn’s table.

_No –_

Everything – his supplies, his work – went up in flames. Askeladd tried to bat the lump of wood onto the floor but it was too late; everything was burning, consumed in less time than should have been possible. _Of course_ , Askeladd thought dimly, launching another frantic flurry of blows at Rorik. _All those dried herbs._ The table connected to the wall, connected to the roof – not long before the whole thing came down on their heads. He had to get Bjorn out of here, he had to finish it, finish it now –

The beast in the burning room lunged at him, raining steel on his head –

-

Bjorn woke atop a pile of shards. His skull was splitting with agony, his cheek raw where his father’s fist had connected. He couldn’t focus his vision, no matter how hard he blinked. Smoke. Smoke filled the room, choking him. He struggled to get to his feet and felt at his side, gasping in pain. There was no blood, no wound; no shards beneath him. His ribs, then. His ribs were broken.

Half the room was burning. Flames licked the walls, garnished the roof, consuming more untouched space with every heartbeat. Sound assaulted his ringing ears; the roar of the fire, the clash of steel against steel, animals screaming in the byre. Steel – Bjorn blinked hard, peering into the gloom. Terror took him by the throat at the sight of Askeladd catching every one of his father’s blows; each riposte slowing. _His leg!_ Bjorn thought in a panic, struggling to his feet. _He’s not supposed to be here!_ The pain cut at him and he gagged, fists clenching in the dirt. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t bear his own weight. His head spun too badly. Desperation clawed at him, hounding him; this was his fault, his fault, he had to do something, before the house burned down, before Askeladd’s leg gave out, before it was too late.

Groping at his belt, he drew Tove’s dagger and held it in a vice grip. He wouldn’t lose this blade, no matter what came next. There was no time to think, to plan; dizzy with pain, he half-crawled to where his father hammered Askeladd with shattering blow after blow before seizing one massive ankle and sawing through the back of it. The leg buckled, his other foot jerked; groaning in pain, Bjorn flung himself forward and hacked through the other with wild, frantic strokes.

His father hit the ground like a felled tree, bellowing in fury; that he could hear over the flames. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Bjorn’s neck, a decade of abuse cringing in him, but he lurched forward and hacked at the back of Rorik’s legs despite it. Fear couldn’t stop him now; nothing could.

Rorik wanted to trap an unwilling subject in this place so badly; now he would never leave it.

Bjorn didn’t have a chance to flinch away – his father hauled himself around and hurled himself at Bjorn, pinning him to the ground, one massive hand closing around his throat, crushing, crushing –

He struggled against his father’s implacable weight, legs flailing as he tried to gain enough purchase to shove Rorik off, but he was impossible to move. Pinwheels danced in his vision, and darkness encroached, before dragging him under completely; he couldn’t hear the animals anymore, couldn’t feel the flames, couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t –

All at once, the pressure around his throat ceased. He drew a ragged breath, gasping, coughing on a lungful of smoke. His head ached, his vision spun; but he saw his father’s widened eyes and mouth agape, twisting in a terrible rictus. Something wet splattered his face, dripped on his chest. Then the weight atop him was gone, shoved aside with one well placed kick.

Askeladd.

Askeladd. He was saying something, his mouth was moving, but Bjorn couldn’t hear him over the roar of the flames, the pounding in his ears. He couldn’t hear Askeladd’s voice, but an outstretched hand he understood well enough. He reached up –

-

Askeladd hauled Bjorn to his feet and wrapped an arm around his waist, hustling him out of the burning room and into the cool darkness beyond. A gust of air at the threshold nearly sucked them back into the inferno, but Askeladd pushed through it, screaming with effort. His leg, it was going to buckle again, he had to get them out –

They staggered away from the conflagration, collapsing a few shaking strides away into the dewy grass. Each breath scraped past his raw throat, the clean air flooding his scalded lungs, and he coughed, choked; after burning for so long, fresh air hurt more than smoke.

Bjorn clutched his side, wheezing. His fists clenched and released as he tried to orient himself. Askeladd could still feel him trembling. When he looked up, his face was streaked with blood and ash. 

Askeladd grabbed his arm, shaking him a little. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he demanded, his heart racing. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?!”

Bjorn looked up, a tinge of incredulity wrinkling his brow. “Your leg is still hurt,” he said as if it were obvious. Askeladd released his arm, stunned that his injury would occur to Bjorn at such a time, struck to his very core. But before he could think to say anything, Bjorn’s affect changed; shamed, unsure. He dropped his gaze. “And … I thought you would try to stop me.”

Askeladd gaped in disbelief. It was so ridiculous that he forgot to lie, forgot that Bjorn didn’t already know everything about him. There were no secrets in the fire. “I’m the last person in the world who would have tried to stop you.”

Bjorn looked up at him, and after a long while he nodded. Nothing more was said. Nothing more needed to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter and part 1 is a wrap! thank you so much to everyone reading, kudoing, and leaving me feedback on this story -- your support keeps me going!


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